Beyond the Mapped Stars

by Rosalyn Eves

  Rebekka’s lips tip up at the corners. It might be a smile. “You forgot the part where we’re happy.”

  “It never seemed to me that God cared much if we were happy, as long as we do what we ought to.”

  “That sounds like something your mama would say,” Rebekka says, sighing. “Your mama is a good woman, but she’s wrong about some things. The Book of Mormon says, ‘Men are, that they might have joy.’ What does that mean, except God cares about our happiness? Don’t confuse what your mama wants with what God wants.”

  I try to swallow, but the oats stick in my throat.

  “If you could do anything you wanted,” Rebekka says, “what would you do?”

  I don’t even have to think. “Go to Denver and see the solar eclipse happening later this month. Find a way to study astronomy.”

  Her pale eyebrows lift. “How would you support yourself in Denver?”

  “I have a friend. I think she’d let me stay with her until I found work, long enough to see the eclipse.” I didn’t realize I planned so much of this out already.

  “Then why don’t you go?”

  “What?” I stare at her. “But you—the baby—”

  “You gave my baby back to me. I can’t ask for more than that. And anyway, Ammon has a cousin that can come help, or the sisters from the ward. There are always babies going to be born and needing care. You can’t make yourself responsible for all of them. And how will you know which path is right for you—what your mama wants for you, what you want—unless you try it?”

  “I promised God,” I blurt out. “I nearly killed Rachel—she almost drowned because I was distracted when I should have been watching her. She lived, and I promised I’d be more obedient.”

  Rebekka stirs her spoon around her bowl. “A promise is serious business. But I don’t think God works on a barter system. And how do you know who you are meant to be? Perhaps you’re meant to study the stars.”

  Her words sear through me like fire. Have I gotten this whole thing wrong? Have I confused God’s will with Mama’s? “You think I should go?”

  “What does your heart tell you?”

  My heart pounds in my throat. Go, go, go.

  I think of the telescope, back in Rawlins, how a smudge sprang into clusters of light under the right focus. Maybe my own conflict is like that smudge—the effect of asking the wrong question, of choosing the wrong focus. Maybe I’m not meant to be a wife and mother, to be my mother. Maybe I am meant to study the stars instead.

  Per aspera ad astra.

  I spring from my seat, my bowl of oatmeal mostly untouched, and kiss Rebekka’s cheek. “How are you so wise? You’re going to be a wonderful mama.”

  Rebekka flushes with pleasure and returns the kiss. “I had lots of practice with you and the other children. Now, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to Denver.”

  chapter fifteen

  Friday, July 19, 1878

  Outside of Cheyenne, Wyoming

  Ten days until eclipse

  Announcing that I am going to Denver proves to be far easier than accomplishing that fact. First, there are expenses. I use my last three quarters (all right, Alice’s quarters) to send a telegram to Alice, to see if she’s still willing to host me for a day or two and to ask if her grandfather might have need of a worker in his hotel. Rebekka has a few dollars saved from her housekeeping accounts, but it is not enough to cover the full cost of the train ticket—and I can’t take all of her savings.

  Ammon returns to the house at lunch and finds Rebekka and me sitting at the table, three crumpled dollars and some loose change spread out before us. He’s got a brace of rabbits slung over his shoulder.

  “What’s all this?” he asks.

  Rebekka explains that I’m going to Denver, an announcement that causes only a tiny ripple of surprise on Ammon’s face. Few things upset him for long. “But we’re short the money we need,” Rebekka finishes. “Most of our savings went to the doctor.”

  Ammon scratches his red beard. “I can take these rabbits down to the general store. That’ll bring a bit more.”

  The store. My heart starts pounding. “Do they sell anything at the store aside from foodstuff and general goods?”

  “A few toys and books and other specialty items, like jewelry and mirrors,” Rebekka says.

  I go to my bag and fish out Mary Somerville’s book. Of the two books I borrowed from Miss Wheeler, it has fared the best. The other dried all wavy and water-damaged, but this one is nearly intact, only a little discoloration on the edges and a few curled pages. I hand it to Ammon with a pang. I hope Miss Wheeler will understand what I’m about to do with her book.

  “See if this fetches something too.”

  * * *

  * * *

  By late afternoon the following day, I’m going through a now familiar routine: climbing down the metal stairs onto a wooden platform, retrieving my luggage from a porter. I marvel that only a few weeks ago I had never done any of these things.

  I arrive with my sister’s words still echoing in my ears: How do you know who you are meant to be? Perhaps you’re meant to study the stars.

  Now that I’m in Denver, I intend to find out what I’m capable of. I mean to see the eclipse, to seek out the scientists in the city, to learn as much as I can about the eclipse and figure out how someone like me can get to college to study astronomy.

  Setting a goal like this—a goal just for me, a goal that flies in the face of what others expect of me—is both exhilarating and terrifying. Maybe this is how Will felt, when he stepped out onto the trestle.

  It’s a feeling I could get used to.

  I skirt the station and emerge into the cross streets before the Denver and Rio Grande building. Though it is early evening, the street is ablaze: gas lamps lining the streets, lights from the hotel adjoining the station, and long gold streams from the brick-front businesses facing me, their doors thrown open late to catch the traffic from the incoming train.

  Streets splinter away at right angles from the tracks, opening up before me like some darkening maze, and as I peer down them, they appear endless, crammed with three- and four-story buildings, church spires soaring above them in the distance. I have never seen a city so big—bigger even than Salt Lake City.

  But before the city has time to completely overawe me, Alice is calling my name and waving to me. Will saunters behind her.

  “Well, what do you think?” she demands, gesturing at the city around her.

  “It’s so…big,” I manage.

  “The crown jewel of the plains,” she says proudly. “When the Union Pacific Railroad snubbed us and ran through Cheyenne instead of Denver, everyone thought Denver would shrivel away. Instead, we raised nearly three hundred thousand dollars in just a few days to run our own railroad, the Denver and Rio Grande, up to Cheyenne, and now we are the fastest-growing city in the West.”

  If I mean to make a study of entire universes, I can’t let one city daunt me. I lift my chin. “It’s lovely.”

  Will tips his hat. “Good to see you again, Elizabeth.”

  “And you, Will. I’m happy to see you’re all in one piece.”

  Will glances uneasily at Alice, who has folded her arms across her chest. “Ah, about that…My parents don’t know, and I’d take it as a favor if you don’t mention it to them.”

  I nod understanding, and follow the Stevens siblings to the curb, where a carriage waits. It’s big and dark and gleaming and nicer than anything I’ve ever ridden in, including the trains. Their driver loads up my trunk, and Will helps me into the vehicle.

  We drive down Sixteenth Street, where they point out the enormous four-story, white-brick hotel that belongs to their grandfather.

  “The Trans-Oceana,” Alice tells me.

  “It’s magnificent,” I say, and they
both grin at me.

  Buildings flow past the window of our carriage: hotels and churches, bakeries and groceries, blacksmiths’ forges, dressmakers’ shops, saloons, laundries, and so many more. The overwhelming feeling from the station begins to creep up me again, and I take a deep breath.

  The buildings begin to spread farther apart, interspersed with occasional houses with neat yards and picket fences. We turn left, passing before a large building with a clock tower, which Alice tells me is the local high school. I crane my neck to watch it as we pass: A whole building, devoted just to upper students? I can almost feel the electricity of ideas gathering about the place.

  We come at last to a street of grand houses, and stop before a gabled home, painted gray with white trim. Will helps Alice and me climb down from the carriage. A dark-haired woman in an elegant blue dress waits in the doorway.

  Alice leads me toward the woman and introduces us. “Elizabeth, this is my mama, Louisa Stevens, the finest woman on either side of the Mississippi.”

  Alice must get her high cheekbones and wide, dark eyes from her mama. I take Mrs. Stevens’s offered hand and shake it.

  Mrs. Stevens says, “You’d best all come in. I’ve got Cook laying out a cold supper for you.”

  My stomach gurgles, and I clap my hands across the offending organ. Will smothers a laugh. But if Mrs. Stevens hears, she politely pretends not to. A manservant goes out to the carriage to unload my trunk, and then the driver takes the carriage away.

  Louisa Stevens leads us down a wide hallway to a dining room, where a maid is laying the table for three, setting out slices of cold meat alongside porcelain bowls with strawberries and cream. Pretty little pink roses dance across the rim of the bowls, around the perimeter of the plates.

  We all settle down to eat. Before I’ve even finished the berries—so ripe, they burst in my mouth—the maid has returned, bearing slabs of a thick, fruity cake. A tall white man with light brown hair and a bemused expression follows in her wake.

  “Papa!” Alice says as he seats himself at the table beside his wife. “I didn’t think you’d be coming tonight.”

  A lick of surprise jolts through me. Alice didn’t mention that her father was white—but then, why should she? Interracial marriages are not common in the West, especially now that many places have laws against them, but they are not unheard of either. It’s my own fault for making assumptions again.

  “Just in time for dessert, I see,” Mrs. Stevens says, a trifle drily.

  Mr. Stevens leans over to kiss her cheek. “Best part of the meal.” He smiles around at his children, but his expression hitches a little when he reaches me.

  “Papa, this is Elizabeth Bertelsen. We met…in Rawlins,” Alice says. “After the accident.”

  His expression clears. “Ah, yes. You mentioned she was coming.” He reaches a hand across the table and shakes mine firmly. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

  “And you, sir.”

  “Alice says you are here to see the eclipse,” he says. “You must take a keen interest, to come all this way alone.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say. “I’ve had an interest in astronomy since before I was old enough to spell the word.”

  Mrs. Stevens smiles at me. “It’s good for young ladies to have hobbies to keep their interests balanced. You should ask Alice to show you her paintings.”

  “I hope to.” I pick up my fork. But despite my hunger, I can’t touch the cake. There’s something I need to make clear. I turn to Mrs. Stevens. “You’ve been so kind to me, letting me stay on almost no notice, feeding me this splendid meal. But I don’t mean to impose. If you know of work, at your father’s hotel or elsewhere, I’d like to support myself while I’m here.”

  Apparently Alice didn’t convey that part of my message to her mama, because Mrs. Louisa Stevens raises her eyebrows. “Nonsense. You’re Alice’s guest, and it would be our pleasure to let you stay. We don’t require guests to work for their board.”

  “I appreciate that, ma’am. But my mama always taught me that as a guest or part of the family, it’s my job to contribute something. I’m used to hard work. I’d be glad to help out if I can,” I say.

  Mr. Stevens says, “Nice to see that not all young people have lost sight of the value of hard work.”

  Will lets his fork and knife fall to the table with a clatter. Alice stares fixedly at her lap. Mrs. Stevens says, “Ambrose, perhaps this can wait?”

  “Wait for what? I’m only expressing approval of a good work ethic.”

  Will flexes his hands. “And disapproval of your only son? I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you, Papa.”

  “I didn’t say that,” his father says. “But since you’ve brought it up: Why won’t you show an interest in the business you were raised to? Your mama and I both work to help your grandfather run the hotel, but you’ve not turned up for a day of work since your vacation in California. If a young lady with only a glancing connection to our family is willing to work for us, why won’t my son?” He looks at Will, who sits stone-faced. “It’s time you settled to something. Air dreaming and charming the ladies do not constitute work.”

  Without a word, Will stands and leaves the room.

  The sweetness of the cake has gone clammy in my mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make trouble.”

  Mr. Stevens sighs. “No, it’s my fault for bringing it up at supper. It’s only that I worry for the boy.” He turns a rueful smile on me, and despite my discomfort, I’m not immune to the charm of it. “A father does, you know.”

  We pick at our cake in silence for a moment.

  Then Mrs. Stevens says, “If you’re serious about the work, I’m sure Father could use the extra hands, what with all the people coming for the eclipse.”

  “I am.” I take a deep breath. “Thank you.”

  Alice adds, “Elizabeth is Mormon, Mama.” Maybe she thinks this will account for any odd behavior, or maybe she means to distract from the awkwardness about Will, but I feel myself blushing. I didn’t mean to reveal that quite so abruptly.

  Mrs. Stevens freezes, her cup halfway to her lips. She sets it down carefully, with a tiny clink. Even that small noise sounds refined. My fingers go cold, despite the warm evening, and I brace myself for what’s coming. Please go.

  “Are you all right?” Mrs. Stevens asks me, studying my face. “Not hurt? Is anyone…looking for you?” She doesn’t wait for me to respond but answers her own question. “It doesn’t matter. You can stay here as long as you need. We won’t let them take you back.”

  I stare at her, utterly lost. What is she talking about?

  When I don’t say anything, she continues. “I read Mrs. Stenhouse’s book. I know what it must have been like, poor darling. Did your husband…hurt you?”

  Ah. Fanny Stenhouse’s exposé of polygamy. Of course she read it. Seems almost everyone has—it was in all the newspapers when it came out six years ago. The mean things outsiders say about Mormons I can mostly brush aside, because they come from a place of ignorance. But Fanny Stenhouse—she was one of us. She talked with the prophets. Worshipped in our temples. And then decided she didn’t believe any of it and wrote up all our secrets, all our sacred beliefs—mixed with a fair bit of nonsense—for outsiders to pick through and scorn.

  “I’m not running away from a plural marriage, ma’am.” I think of Mama encouraging me to become a second wife and sigh. Well, it’s mostly true. “But I am Mormon. That’s how I was raised, what I believe. If it troubles you to have me in your home, I understand.”

  Mrs. Stevens continues to watch me, a slight frown marring her smooth forehead. Then her face clears. “Well, I assume you need food and shelter same as anyone, and I can see that your manners are nice. I don’t suppose you can help what you’re raised to.”

  “Mama!” Alice says.

  I smile a little�
�Mrs. Stevens has only said what Alice said, on the train, but more gently. I’ve heard worse.

  Mr. Stevens changes the subject. “Alice, you should take Miss Bertelsen to that dance you’re all going to tonight.”

  “Does your religion allow dancing?” Mrs. Stevens asks.

  “Yes, indeed. Brigham Young was a great fan of dancing; he believed it was important for the body to be exercised, and for people to have a break from work.”

  Mrs. Stevens says, “I was a great fan of dancing, in my youth.”

  “I’m still a great fan of your dancing, my dear,” Mr. Stevens says, smiling at his wife, who only shakes her head at him.

  “Do come. It promises to be grand. And don’t you dare say you’ve nothing to wear,” Alice says, just as I say, “But I’ve nothing to wear to a dance.”

  Everyone laughs—partly, I think, in relief at finally moving past the earlier uncomfortable conversations.

  Mrs. Stevens clears her throat. “I’m sure I can find something in my closet that will fit you well enough.” Alice’s mama is a little taller than me, but we are both rather round. I’d never be able to squeeze into one of Alice’s dresses.

  “You should come,” Alice says again, so I agree.

  Even on this short acquaintance, I’ve learned better than to argue with Alice. Trying to resist her is like trying to stand up to the wind that scours through Monroe canyon. It’s easier to let her have her way, even if part of me would rather stay in this lovely house and sleep.

  While Mrs. Stevens sails off to find a dress, Alice shows me upstairs.

  I’m given a room on the second story, with a big window that faces toward the buildings of downtown Denver. The coverlet is white and lacy, to match the curtains stirring at the window, and a painting of a mother and child in a rose garden hangs on one wall. The woman looks like Mrs. Stevens.

  “Is this yours?” I ask Alice.

  “One of my early ones,” Alice says, making a face at it, but I like it. It’s warm and full of light.