Forsaking All Others

by Allison Pittman

  Just before I crossed the threshold, I heard what was by now a familiar voice call my name and turned to see Mr. Bostwick making his way up the steps, his round hat in his hand.

  “You look quite well this morning, Mrs. Fox.” He winked at the formality.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Bostwick,” I replied. By now I knew that a recognition of health was as close to flattery as Mr. Bostwick was ever prone to offer.

  He craned his neck to look beyond me and asked about my mother in such a way as to make me think she was just as much a reason for his presence as the Lord himself.

  “She’s here somewhere,” I assured him. “Perhaps talking with Mrs. Harris?”

  “Ah.” He rocked back and forth on his heels.

  Our family had always occupied a pew close to the back of the church, and I found myself being pulled right to it, with Mama just behind me. She slid in first, and I was about to follow when Mr. Bostwick cleared his throat and imposed himself between us. I appreciated our position. Having only two rows of pews behind us greatly reduced the number of eyes I could feel on the back of my neck.

  When all were seated, Reverend Harris took his place behind the small wooden pulpit at the front of the church and, with a simple clearing of his throat, brought us all to silence.

  “Brothers and sisters, I shall open with the words of Paul, as he wrote in his letter to the Ephesians—” he opened his swollen Bible to its predetermined page— “‘That we henceforth be no more children, tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the sleight of men, and cunning craftiness, whereby they lie in wait to deceive; but speaking the truth in love, may grow up into him in all things, which is the head, even Christ.’”

  He closed his Bible and set it on the pulpit. “Fellow Christians, we all know there are men who teach false doctrine, who speak Scripture laced with lies, who proclaim an unsound gospel.”

  By the end of this short litany, Reverend Harris had everyone’s attention and approval. I felt my face burning within my bonnet. Had he so warmly invited me to church simply so that he could humiliate me?

  “And sometimes we wish to condemn those who follow such doctrine. We call them heathens, blasphemers, and other names not fit to be spoken in this place.”

  Still, nods of agreement and approval, with a bit of tittering at the last.

  I wanted to die. I’d heard all of those words spewed by my own father when the Mormons were encamped near our home. I heard him shouting them on the banks of the river when I ran away. In fact, it could very well be that some of the men in this room had sat there on horseback, torches in hand, watching me go. I would give anything to go away now. Just when I thought Reverend Harris’s words could not be more hurtful, he said my name, and he asked me to stand.

  Surely, I thought, he couldn’t be this cruel. But when I gazed down the tunnel of my bonnet, I saw his watery blue eyes focused right on me, and as if by his will, I stood.

  “Many of you know this woman,” he said. “And if you know her, you know that she has been gone these past years as a follower of that doctrine.”

  A sound went through the congregation. Something like a pitiful hiss.

  “I want you to see her not as the woman she is today, but as a child. A helpless child. A child caught in the rushing waters of deception. And I urge you all—just as many of you already have—to welcome her with Christian love. To speak of her only in words of Christian love. Not only because I, the leader in this church, request; but because it is what Jesus Christ, the head of our church, demands. Are we in agreement?”

  Then came a soft, though not reluctant, amen from the congregation, and I was instructed to once again sit down.

  I didn’t hear another word.

  Chapter 25

  October 14, 1858

  Dear Colonel Brandon,

  The changing leaves are putting on a glorious show for us. Another hard frost this morning, but no snow yet. After last winter, who would ever have thought that I would long to see the stuff again, but how dreary to be simply cold with nothing but bare trees and hard-packed earth to show for it. I believe I shall, for the rest of my life, have my own predictor of snow, as I get a particular, sharp ache deep in the bones at that spot where Dr. Buckley performed his efficient surgery. The pain is enough to immobilize my hand, and though I lived with it for only one winter, it proved itself as accurate as any almanac.

  “Another letter?” Mama brushed past the writing desk on her way to open the curtains wider, letting in the brilliant autumn sunshine that did little to heat the room.

  “Colonel Brandon is a faithful correspondent,” I said, taking advantage of the time of conversation to let the ink dry on the page.

  “Faithful suitor is what he is.”

  “Faithful friend.”

  My correction, however, was lost as she tossed one dry log after another onto the fire, sending spitting sparks out onto the hearth. I got up from my little desk and went to help stamp out those few sparks that made their way to the carpet and, once there, held my aching hand to the heat.

  “The cold bothers you, does it?”

  “It’s awful,” I said. “To have pain in something that’s not even there. I feel haunted by my own flesh.”

  “Might feel better in the kitchen. It’s warmer in there and I could use some help with the cobbler.”

  “For tonight?” The two of us usually had very simple suppers.

  “Mr. Bostwick has asked to come over. Official business,” she added quickly with the slightest blush to her cheeks.

  “Of course.” I knew this to be nothing more than the business we always discussed during Mr. Bostwick’s visits. A new tenant, perhaps, in our storefront building or the tax note due on the land. Still, there would also be an opportunity to talk of my business—perhaps news of the changing government in Utah Territory, more testimony of Brigham Young’s diminishing power—all of which bolstered my hope in the promise waiting at the end of winter.

  I slipped my unfinished letter inside my desk and capped the ink bottle. “Perhaps afterward I’ll have more to write.”

  Mr. Bostwick arrived promptly at five o’clock, just as Mama was taking the boiled potatoes out of the pot. Rather than leaving our guest to the parlor, Mama invited him into the kitchen.

  At first our conversation was little more than idle chitchat about the dampness of the cold and the latest price of cornmeal. Such easy, genial talk, as if this were any man coming home at the end of a day. It had been half a year now since Papa’s passing, and I wondered if both Mr. Bostwick and Mama were using the question of my marriage to Nathan as an excuse to spend time together. Somehow I, the daughter, had become a chaperone, lest anyone in town think either of the two were acting with impropriety.

  After we’d eaten, Mama took on the job of clearing the dishes while Mr. Bostwick emptied his portfolio of papers across the table.

  “I believe,” he said, “we have all we need to proceed. With your mother’s permission, I have transferred all of your holdings into your name. With this, your assets far outweigh your husband’s. You are a property owner here, to which our Mr. Fox can have no claim.”

  “Even though he is my husband?”

  “He is not mentioned by name, nor is any husband acknowledged in your father’s will. Mr. Fox could, of course, make such a claim for it, but as you did not come into the marriage with any such property, and you are not asking to take anything from the divorce settlement, we will initially take the chance that he will follow suit.”

  “Would I have any right to ask anything of him?”

  “Given that we are charging him with adultery, of course.”

  I thought about the modest home and Nathan’s workshop in the barn, full of unfinished projects and his desire for Brigham Young to recognize him as a craftsman. There was nothing of any value. “I only want our children.”

  He presented another sheet of paper filled with his tiny, precise writing. “Of whom we are asking full
custody. And what with his unwholesome behavior—”

  “I’ve told you, it’s the way of the church.”

  “A year ago, with Brigham Young holding both religious and legislative power, that might not have worked in our favor. But it’s a new era in Utah.”

  “I know, the Gentile governor. But that doesn’t make Brigham any less powerful.”

  “What Brigham Young wants is statehood, an institution incompatible with polygamy.”

  “But it’s the practice of the church.”

  “Then its leader will be forced to make a choice. In the meantime—” he redirected my attention to the page—“we will insist that the three children will better thrive in the home of their mother.”

  “Do you mention the new baby in that document?”

  “Of course, although we are not yet able to specify the child’s gender or name,” Mr. Bostwick said, indulgently.

  “You said you had no reason to mention my ‘delicate condition.’”

  “By the time we go to court, we will have something far more tangible than a delicate condition. God willing, we will have a healthy, living child.”

  “So we have to mention the new baby in the papers?”

  “If I am to represent you in court, yes. I will not be anything less than truthful. Mr. Fox is, indeed, the child’s father?”

  Mama and I gasped in unison, and she appeared ready to rear back and slap him.

  Mr. Bostwick held up his hands to fend off the attack. “I’m only posing the questions that the court will ask if the child is ever discovered. By including him in the divorce proceedings, you are validating his legitimacy. He was conceived within the confines of your marriage, and were circumstances different, you would expect Mr. Fox to claim him. We are dealing here with the same legal principle.”

  “He’ll fight it,” I said through the lump in my throat. “And he’ll have the entire church on his side.”

  “Rest assured, he will not. If Brigham Young has showed anything, it’s that he doesn’t want conflict in his holy land.”

  “But he raised an army. They were at war.”

  “A war without a battle, ended with his surrender. The Mormons are a quiet, insidious people. Their leader will not welcome a spotlight on their flawed faith.”

  Mama reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “I worry what will happen when he sees the baby.”

  “He need not see the child,” Mr. Bostwick said. “Nor you, Camilla, as a point of fact. Remember, I need only have your signature, and I am perfectly capable of representing your interests alone. If you hadn’t rejected my idea to leave two months ago, your darling daughters might be at the table with us this very minute.”

  “I told you, it didn’t seem prudent—”

  “At least,” Mr. Bostwick said, unable to leave us to our peace, “allow me to send word that you are, indeed, alive and well and intending to sue for divorce.”

  He had made this very request countless times, and my answer never wavered.

  “No. I know my fears may be unfounded, but right now my existence is the only advantage I have.”

  * * *

  As fall deepened into mid-November, I came to expect the arrival of my baby any day. The days grew cold and bleak, and my joy at the anticipation of welcoming this new child warred with my despair over the many months that must pass before I might again lay eyes on my first two. Despite the dreary weather, I tried to get out and stretch my legs each day lest cabin fever drive me to distraction. And so it was on my walk home from our post office in town that I felt the first pains of labor. In the wee hours of the next morning, with Mama holding my hand, my son was born.

  We’d enlisted no one to help us—no midwife, no doctor. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that, as welcoming as our community tried to be, there was always a shade of disapproval in their eyes whenever their gazes dropped to my waist.

  Before the birth of my girls and my first son, I’d spent countless hours knitting—alone or with a circle of women—creating tiny garments and such to welcome the new child into the world. This boy came into the world, vibrant red and squalling, with little more than a few cotton shirts and diapers to call his own. Those and the unmistakable glint of his father’s eyes.

  “Oh, he’s beautiful,” Mama said, even as he took his first breaths in this world.

  “He is,” I agreed, holding his wet, squirming body close to mine. More than beautiful, he was instantly, vibrantly alive. His arms and legs thrashed; his cries filled the room. Mama took him and washed him and returned him to me a clean, healthy pink with a soft cap of blond hair.

  “Have you thought about a name?” Mama asked.

  I hadn’t.

  His cries quieted as we looked at each other; his waving fists grew still. There was only one name I could give this boy.

  “Charles.” I looked to Mama not for confirmation but for understanding. “Charles Deardon Fox.”

  He took to the name immediately, wrapping his hand around my finger and turning his perfect head toward the sound of my voice.

  “Does he look like your girls?” Mama asked. “Like they did when they were born?”

  I pulled him closer. “He’s bigger. The girls felt like they didn’t weigh anything at all. His face is rounder, like his father’s. And his eyes are darker. And his smile . . .”

  “Nonsense.” She brought a basin of warm water and began to wash me. “Babies don’t smile when they’re just born.”

  I didn’t argue, but she was wrong. Already, within these few minutes, my baby’s mouth stretched itself into a tiny version of his father’s enticing, sometimes wicked, grin.

  “Oh, baby boy,” I whispered, “I’m so happy to have you to myself.”

  * * *

  The arrival of baby Charles brought a new flood of visitors and food and gifts. I suppose something about new life initiates forgiveness. Reverend Harris and his wife came with the cradle last used by his youngest son—now ten years old—and several small, soft blankets. When we gathered in the parlor to pray, Reverend Harris held Charlie in one arm and lifted the other high.

  “Most sovereign Lord—” his deep, rich voice filled the room—“we rejoice in the safe delivery of this child and the health of his mother. May he be raised in your truth and dedicated to a life of Christian righteousness.”

  Such a burden I felt under those words. With Charlie safe in Reverend Harris’s grasp, my own arms felt so empty. How clearly I recalled handing my girls over to Elder Justus as he spoke similar words over them, and I had stood by, silently, ignorantly, pledging to raise my daughters to believe the lies of a false gospel. What I wouldn’t give to have had them at my side that day, gathered to me as we prayed for their brother. I hazarded to open one eye to look upon my son, nestled in the arm of a godly man, and emptied my own prayer into the room.

  Father, hold my girls. Keep them safe, even as you kept this little one safe within me through so many trials.

  I knew our reunion would be in his time and his way, and I knew the choices I’d made to this point weren’t perfect ones. I could have refused to let Nathan into my bed, but then I would not have this precious life. I could have refused to leave without my children, but then I might have fallen victim to the discipline of the church. Still, never had I felt farther away from my daughters than I did at this moment. More than the separation of a thousand miles, it was an unfathomable spiritual expanse. I would not rest easy until I’d brought them to the other side.

  Chapter 26

  December 9, 1858

  Dear Colonel Brandon,

  How wonderful to hear that you will be able to spend Christmas with your son. And to travel by train—how I long to do so someday. Why, there were moments when riding the stage felt like absolute flight! It is hard for me to even imagine what it would feel like to ride on a train. Please give my regards to Robert. Though I have not met him, I’ve heard you speak of him so often, I feel almost as if we are long-lost friends.

  To t
his, I add what must be much-anticipated news for you. I, too, will be spending Christmas with my own son, as he was born to me just a few nights ago. He and I are both feeling well, though we match each other for hours slept throughout the day. I confess that when I look into his face, I see his father’s features, but I have you to thank for his safe birth here in this place. I have learned that the passion of youth can fade, but I do hope that our friendship will transcend such erosion, and it is in that light that I gave my son the name of Charles. It is a strong name, shared by a man whose strength may well have saved my life. I hope I have not imposed too much.

  Now, to your journey. Mama, I fear, will be disappointed. I was under strict orders to invite you to join us for Christmas supper in my next letter. . . .

  It would be my first Christmas away from my daughters, and throughout the season of Advent, I prayed it would be the last. This year, however, I devoted myself to creating gifts to lavish them with when we were reunited. For Melissa I made her own apron, as she was always busy about the kitchen helping me or Kimana. I’d become quite adept at all sorts of needlework despite my handicap, and I embroidered a scene of frolicking kittens on each of the apron pockets. For Lottie I painted a simple bouquet of flowers on a piece of canvas to be stretched over a ring and serve as her first attempt at stitching. She’d need only follow the painted lines with the different colored silk thread, and in the end she’d have something far more beautiful than a simple alphabet. Of course, I also knit each of them a new pair of mittens and a matching scarf, though I’d not yet decided on what fashion of hat each would like.

  “You’re planning to spoil those girls,” Mama said. It was two days past Christmas, and she was newly returned from town. Snow created lace on the other side of the window and blew in with a halfhearted flurry before she could close the door behind her.

  “It keeps me busy.”