"I'm worse than you ever thought," John said abjectly. "I've failed at everything. Even at leaving you. I've done every black sin in the book and some not, Anna. Charlie's right, you ought to throw me out, though I beg you not to. I don't deserve any goodness at your hands." Anna watched him through red-rimmed eyes, fearing what he would say next. He said it. "Anna, in these years I've kept company with other women. I thought that was the only sort of woman a man like me deserved. But I finally reached the end of that road, and I couldn't face it, I said, Sweet Lord Jesus, how can I stop, how can I undo all this, where can I go? I thought of dying and it looked good to me, but then I heard it like a voice, it said, Go home, John, that's where they loved you once, and where you hurt them first, and if there's any forgiveness for you in the world it's there. I don't expect forgiveness, Anna, I don't have a right to it, if you threw me out of the house it would be better than I deserve, but in the name of God, can you give me peace?" His voice ended in a whine that turned to sobs; his body shook.
"He's drunk," Charlie said contemptuously.
Dinah looked at her father and understood at last why he had come. God sent him back as the final test of their faith. He had tested Dinah with her husband's brutality, had tested Charlie with the temptation of the riches of the world, but those were little trials compared to this. Here was the man who had caused them more misery than anyone else in the world, the man who had most bitterly betrayed them. How strong was their faith? Strong enough to forgive this man, their father, their enemy? Val came to her, reached for her, and she held him on her lap. The child held her tightly around the neck, staring at this stranger.
Dinah knew what she was doing when she told him, "Val, this is your gramfer."
She nudged Val, and the boy slid down from her lap and walked across the room to the shabby man who was weeping, his face buried in his hands. Val touched John Kirkham's knee, and watched in wonder as the sagging, tear-stained face rose from the abyss of grief and smiled at him. Val knew what to say to someone who was crying. Hadn't Dinah said it to him over and over again, when he awoke from his nightmares? "Don't cry. It's all right now.
You must forgive your father and forget your fear of him, Dinah had taught Val, for however much he hurt you, he helped make for you the body that feels the pain. Forgive the sins of your parents, child, for in time you will beg your own children to forgive yours.
"It's all right, Father," Dinah said. "You've come home."
Dinah's decision was the final one; she knew it as she said it, for Anna looked at her with unspeakable relief, and even though Charlie raged, she knew he'd come around. Or at least she hoped he would.
"God in heaven!" Charlie shouted. "Am I the only one who remembers what this man has done? This isn't his home, it's my home, and I bloody well won't have him in it!"
Anna's voice was thick with emotion. "It's my home, too, Charlie." And at that Charlie stormed out of the cottage, slamming the door behind him.
Charlie didn't know where he was going when he left the house, but he was not surprised to find himself at the apostles' office on Oldham Road. He ran up the stairs and then stopped, unsure of what he was there for, what he wanted to say. The apostles were all there, and William Clayton, the branch president, and several other men from other branches who had come for the conference. Plainly it was a meeting of the church leaders, and in other circumstances they might have told Charlie politely that he ought not to be there and could he please come back later. But there was something in the expression on Charlie's face that said this was something important. Heber and Brigham glanced at each other. Brigham nodded, and Heber got up and took Charlie down the stairs and outside.
Charlie poured out the whole story to him. The whole branch had assumed that Anna Kirkham was a widow, and the family had never said anything to disabuse them of the notion, so the whole thing came as a surprise to Heber. He listened quietly, now and then prompting Charlie with a question, but hearing the whole tale through without judgment. Charlie finally finished by saying, "I know I'm supposed to forgive my neighbor, but how can I? He's been the poison of my life, everything I've ever hated and feared came from him. I can't forgive him for that. I can't, Brother Heber, even if I go to hell for it." He was crying, of course, and so far gone in his anguish that he didn't even bother to wipe away the tears.
When it was clear that Charlie was through, that he had no more to say, Heber began to speak, softly and reasonably, his arm around Charlie's shoulder so that Charlie felt very young and small and safe, even though he was taller than the American apostle.
"Charlie, you don't have to forgive him for the chimney-sweep putting needles in your feet. You don't have to forgive him for your not having proper schooling, or for your family's poverty, or for your mother being a servant, or for the man who attacked your sister. You don't have to forgive him for any of that, because he didn't do it. If he hadn't left you, he might have lost his job anyway, right? You might have had to go live in the same filth, your sister might have had to work for the same foreman, you might still have been apprenticed off to the sweep, your mother still might have been a servant in a rich man's house."
"But I would have had a father through it all."
"Yes," Heber said, "yes, that's the one sin you can lay at your father's door, the one thing you must forgive him for, that he left you fatherless through all those years. But the other things were not in his control. You can't blame your own sins on Adam, Charlie, and you can't blame all your suffering on your father. Lay at each man's door only what he did himself."
Charlie didn't answer, and they walked on in the darkness.
"Charlie," Heber said. "If you're going to blame him for every bad thing that happened in your life, at least be fair about it. If your mother hadn't had to be a servant in Mr. Hulme's house, then would you have ever been tutored by the old man? Would you have your fine position where you work now? And would you have been in St. Anne's square that day at noon and heard me preach and looked at me with such a bnghtness in your eyes that I knew I should go to you and invite myself to your home? Would you have ever read the book, would you have come to the day when you heard your sister speak with the voice of an angel, would apostles have ever laid their hands on your head and given you the power of God, if it hadn't been for your father?"
Charlie stopped walking then, for Heber had led him to the front door of his own house, and inside the door he knew his father was waiting for his answer.
"Don't think I belittle what you feel. Charlie," Heber said quietly. "But I can't help remembering that I left my wife and children hungry and penniless and homeless in Illinois to come on this mission. I'd like to think my children will understand and forgive me for walking off and leaving them in a time of trouble. I reckon I'm waiting for your answer, too."
Charlie's answer was to embrace Heber and kiss him on the cheek as the Brethren were wont to do to show their love in Christ. Then he left him there in the darkness, walked to his own door, opened it, and went inside.
They were still there as he had left them two hours before, Dinah and her children, Anna, and John Kirkham. They all looked up as he closed the door behind him. "You can stay," Charlie said. "Father."
And so it was done. Or almost, anyway. For after Dinah and the children had gone home, there was the matter of going to bed. Anna went first into her room. John Kirkham started to follow her. But Charlie was there, blocking his way.
"That's not your room, sir," Charlie said softly. "You'll be sleeping in there." He pointed to his own door just across the hall.
John's eyes looked sadly up into Charlie's. "I thought after ten years I'd sleep with my wife tonight."
"You have the smell of another woman's sweat on you."
Forgiveness for abandonment Charlie could give; forgiveness for adultery was out of his reach. After all that had passed, it would offend decency too much for them to share a bed so soon. John Kirkham opened his mouth to speak and Charlie cut him off curtly. "I'll
see you in hell first." After that John Kirkham made no argument.
Anna came out of her room then with. an armful of John's old clothing. "Yours," she said.
John smiled ruefully and fingered the clothes he was wearing. "I suppose there'll be no point in even washing these."
"Oh, we'll wash them," Anna said. "And then we'll give them to the poor."
John pointed to the clean clothes she was carrying. "Why didn't you give those to the poor?"
Anna did not need to say a word. They all heard the answer anyway. Because I knew that you'd come back. I saved them all these years for you.
Then Anna returned to her room and closed the door. If John had had any lingering hope of entering that room tonight, that was his answer. He looked at Charlie and smiled in surrender. And then, almost as an afterthought, he said, "Charlie, this religion that you and Anna and Dinah have joined. Your mother said they baptize for the forgiveness of sins."
Charlie nodded. "I'll bring them to preach to you, if you'd like."
"Yes, I'd like that."
John smiled again, trying to establish some bridge between them. But Charlie didn't smile back, just left the room and closed the door. And tonight he made up his bed in the hall, so John could not possibly leave the room without Charlie knowing. Not until the old man was clean in every way would Charlie let him pass that barrier in the night.
21
Corey Kirkham London, 1840
Robert had no keener eyes than Charlie or Dinah, but his memory was sharper: he knew John Kirkham instantly, the moment he saw the man loitering outside the factory gate. Days before John made his way to the Mormon conference and followed his family home, Robert saw him and knew him and gave him an answer that would never bend.
"Man here to see you, sir," the office boy said.
"Did he give his name?"
"Said he was a man you'd want to see."
"He was wrong."
The boy knew his duty then, and started out the door of the drafting room. Robert stopped him.
"Wait."
"Yes, sir?"
"Don't tell him I won't see him. Tell him to wait. And then talk to him. Find out all you can -- where he's from in London, what he's doing here, what he wants. As much as you can. But don't so much as give him the name of my wife. Then come back to me."
Robert had longed for this day. Once, when he was younger, because he loved his father and missed him; then, for many years, he had hoped there'd come a time when he could repay the old cruelty. Now he stood leaning on the drawing table, feeling so weak, trembling so much that he dared not let go. The man was here. After all these years, why had he come?
And then Robert's gaze fell upon the newspapers stacked on the table -- London papers of a week ago. Hulme's solicitor had brought them back with him from London only last evening, because they had articles on the new engine. And in the articles there was a paragraph that explained why John Kirkham was here:
The young inventor, Robert Kirkham, carries himself like a gentleman. One would never supposed that he arose out of poverty. Born in a decent family, he was orphaned at an early age; since then he has set an example for all the lower classes, for instead of trying to seize what did not belong to him, he has risen through his own effort and genius to the forefront of his trade.
Of course John Kirkham read it. So young Robert was saying he was orphaned, was he? So young Robert was at the forefront of his trade, was he? The smell of money was powerful enough to be detected as far away as London. And from the look of him, John Kirkham needed money.
"He wouldn't say much," the boy reported. "But he's a cheerful fellow."
"No doubt."
"Said he was from London, that's all. But he did mention a pub he was often at -- St. Vine, he said."
"A pub or a church?"
"That's what he said. St. Vine."
"And nothing more?"
"Just that he's hungry."
Robert dug into his vest pocket and took out a guinea. "Give him that and tell him he's not wanted here."
The boy's eyes widened. "He's a kind enough man, sir."
"Say as I said it. Tell him exactly this: The place he wants is no longer available."
The boy paused a moment, trying to make sense of the message, then gave up and went to do the errand. In a few moments Robert could see the shabby man walking away from the factory. He had understood well enough. Whatever else Robert's father was, he was no fool. He knew he had been recognized; he knew he would not be forgiven.
It was only later in the day that Robert realized he would not be shut of his father so easily. As Robert went to take his dinner with two railroad men from Bristol, he saw a man passing out papers to those who walked by. Robert recognized him as a Mormon, one who was often at Mother's house. Ordinarily he would have passed by, deliberately paying no attention, but he happened to hear his brother's name. "Charlie Kirkham," said the man, "so it won't be just Americans speaking -- you'll hear the gospel of Jesus Christ in English, too!"
There was some laughter at that, but Robert was not amused. He took a flier out of the man's hand and read it as he walked to the restaurant. Charlie was going to give a speech. John Kirkham would surely see the notices. He would go to Mother and Dinah and Charlie. And, fools that they were, they'd believe whatever lies he told, believe his tales of repentance and love and suffering and whatever else he said to win their pity. But Robert knew better. John Kirkham had accepted the guinea. The man was a beggar without pride. Whatever he might say, it was Robert Kirkham's money that had brought him to Manchester. But failing that, John Kirkham would surely settle for Charlie's money. It wasn't nearly as much, but it would do.
The dinner went well, despite the fact that Robert's mind was busy with worries about how to protect the family from this dog returning to his vomit. By now Robert could handle railroad men with ease. Of course they did not want to buy -- they wanted to steal. So Robert accurately told them everything his engine could do -- and amiably lied about how his engine did it. Go home and try to build that, he said silently as he smiled at them over the wine. Go home, build what you think I've taught you to build, and your customers will all come to me for an engine that delivers on its promises. They laughed and told stories and for all the world might have been friends dining together for the first time in years; but the dinner was a battle in a long war, and as usual Robert won. He might be fooled, but not so easily as that.
After the meal, Robert went to his solicitor. Since Charlie worked in the firm, Robert did as he always did: he entered by the back stair and slipped into Royal's office without passing through the counting room where Charlie ruled and Robert would be viewed as an interloper.
"I thought you said there was no urgency on those papers!" Royal said with surprise.
Papers? Oh, yes. Royal was doing research for him on the question of the powers of a husband over a wife. Not for him to use against Mary, of course, sweet Mary who was all a man could hope for, loyal, hardworking, and uncomplaining. A wife like that needed no compulsion. "I'm here on another matter."
"Matters do have a way of proliferating, don't they?" said Royal with a chuckle. "Therein lies the profit in the legal profession."
"When are you going to London next?" Robert asked.
"In a month, I expect," Royal said. "It's a city I do not love, I will confess it."
"Then have you a man there who can do me a service, in your name?"
"Of course." Royal looked interested. "Investments?"
"Information. I want to find out all there is to know about a recent resident of London. All I have is the man's name, his occupation, his appearance, and the name of a pub."
"Not much, you know. What sort of information do you hope to find?"
"Everything that can be discovered about him. I'll decide what's important and what isn't. And not a word of this inquiry breathed to anyone."
Royal looked pained. "When have I ever been wanting in discretion?"
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