Through Cloud and Sunshine

by Dean Hughes

  Liz nodded and thanked him. “How is Rosemary?”

  “Well ... that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He stood straight, with his feet square under him, and he held the brim of his black hat with both hands. “Rosemary give birth to a child—a little boy—a week ago yesterday. But everythin’ went wrong, an’ ... well ... by the time it was o’er, she was too weak. I lost her, Liz. She took her last breath with me holdin’ her in my arms.” His lips were shaking, but he didn’t cry.

  “I’m so sorry, Brother Clarkston. I knew Rosemary all my life.”

  “She was sick all the way ’cross the sea, and she was wore out from that, I think, and then she was just so tiny. It was like she wasn’t big enough to have a fine big boy for her first child.”

  “Is the baby all right?”

  “Aye, he is. He come through fine. But he’s not thrivin’. Some of the sisters what live ’roun’ me try their level best ta help, but he do na’ like cow’s milk. He’s losin’ weight, and he cries aw the time. I know he’s ’ungry.”

  “I understand.” Liz was starting to realize why Oscar had come.

  “Some’un said this mornin’, you lost a baby, and them sisters said I should talk to ye—because you could do it. I mean, you could feed ’im that way.”

  All day Liz had been feeling pain from her milk. Certainly, she could nurse the baby, but what was he asking? “Did you want to leave him with me for a time, or ... what did you have in mind?”

  “Well ... I don’t know what you feel ’bout this, but I do na’ see how I can raise ’im. I have to keep my farm a-goin’, and I can na’ be wif ’im all day. More’n ’at, the sisters is sayin’ he’ll die if he do na’ have nourishment.”

  “But how long would you want me to have him?”

  “I’m thinkin’ you could take ’im as yor own. Raise ’im instead of the little girl you lost. And give ’im love the way a woman can. I hear some has done it, and it works out awright. The sisters said Emma Smith done it, and it was a blessin’ to her.”

  Liz really didn’t know. It wouldn’t be her baby, wouldn’t smell the same. Maybe she couldn’t love it the same. But something was coming awake inside her.

  “Do you want to see ’im? Sister Reynolds has ’im out in the wagon. I thought na’ to walk right in with ’im, not ’til I said everythin’ what I was thinkin’.”

  “Wait just a minute,” Will said. He had stepped over next to Liz, and now he put his arm around her waist. “I have a question. And maybe Liz has some of her own.”

  “Good. Go right on an’ ax me.”

  “You’re likely to find another woman to marry. Supposing Liz has the baby for a few months or a few years, and you have a wife by then, and you get thinking you want your son back. What then?”

  Brother Clarkston shook his head. He tucked his hat under one arm and said, “No. I thought on that. I never will marry now. I can na’ feel the same about any other lass. My way of thinkin’ is, I might leave here and go some’ere where I do na’ think on Rosemary ever’ minute of ever’ day. If I give my son over, I do na’ plan to come back for ’im. I might like to see ’im someday, and know what kind of man he is, but that would be aw.”

  “You might not feel that same way after a while.”

  “I can only tell ye what I feel now, Will. And I’ll tell ye what else. I’d sooner let Liz have ’im forever than to watch him dwindle down and die, and I’m scared that’s what he’s a-doin’ now.”

  “Well ... I know,” Will said, “but we need to have the right understanding before this all starts. I don’t want Liz’s heart to be broken all over again.”

  But Liz didn’t need these men negotiating for her. “Will, how do you even know I want the baby?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let me see him. I could help him right now and worry about the rest later.”

  Will looked wary, seemed ready to say something else, but Brother Clarkston walked out and before long was back with Sister Reynolds, who whispered her condolences to Liz and then handed the baby to her, wrapped in an old brown blanket, not as soft as the one Mary Ann had had.

  Liz was frightened, but she took him.

  “He’s fallen asleep along the way—from the rockin’ of the wagon,” Sister Reynolds said.

  Just as Liz looked at him, however, his eyes opened. He was surprisingly bright eyed; if he was dwindling, he certainly was stronger than Mary Ann had been. “Oh, he’s pretty,” Liz said. “He has his mother’s eyes.”

  “He’s got more hair than most,” Sister Reynolds said, “and look how dark it is, like yours. People will think he’s your own son.”

  Liz wasn’t sure about that, but he was a fine-looking boy, with a good head, and hands twice the size of Mary Ann’s. He began to whimper, and his face wrinkled up. Liz laughed a little at how sad he looked, and she tucked him close to her. “Get Mary Ann’s blanket,” Liz said to Will. “I put it in the bottom drawer.” She pointed to the cupboard.

  “Liz, let’s think this over just a little,” he said cautiously.

  “He needs to eat, Will. All of you walk outside. I’ll feed him.”

  “Aw right,” Brother Clarkston said. “Are you thinking that—”

  “I don’t know what I’m thinking, except that he needs to be fed.” She looked at Will. “You go too. Just give me a few minutes with him.”

  Will got the blanket for Liz, but before he followed the others outside, he said, “This might be just the right thing for you, Liz. But only do it if you’re sure it’s right.”

  Liz wasn’t looking at him. She was gazing down at the little boy. “I know,” she said. “I understand what you’re saying.”

  Liz dropped the coarse wool blanket on the floor and wrapped Mary Ann’s soft blanket around the baby, and then she opened her dress and sat down on her bed. She held the little boy to her breast, and he knew immediately what to do. She had always wanted Mary Ann to nurse that way. She felt the tugs, more painful than she had expected, but liked the little grunting sounds he began to make. “You were hungry,” she said, and she laughed. And then tears spilled onto her cheeks.

  • • •

  Will was worried. When Brother Clarkston had shown up and posed his question, Will’s first thought had been that this was an answer to prayer, that this was what Liz needed. But almost immediately, he had begun to wonder. Could she love this baby the way she had loved Mary Ann? If he turned out to be belligerent or stupid, would she blame herself—or even Will—for taking him?

  Outside, Sister Reynolds was saying, “He’s a lovely baby. I’d take him myself, ’cept we have three little ones already. I can’t give him what he needs right now.”

  “Will,” Brother Clarkston said, “I can na’ think what else I kin do. I don’t know any other woman like this—who might want a little one and who has her milk.”

  This all sounded too much like a farmer sticking a calf under a strange cow. “There’s more to it than that,” Will said. “This is a decision that will last a lifetime.”

  “I know. And I do na’ want to give up my li’l boy. But I fear for his life, an’ I can na’ hold on to ’im while he stops his breathin’, same as Rosemary done.” His voice had begun to shake.

  For the first time Will saw that this really was difficult for Oscar. He put his arm around the man’s shoulders. “Let’s just see what she says, here in a few minutes.”

  So the three waited as the sun began to set and fill the woods with burnished light. Will thought about having a son, teaching him, playing with him. But how could he ever feel that this was really his son when he knew that Oscar was his father? Oscar was a small man, not built very strong, and he was certainly not a scholar. What sort of son would this baby turn out to be?

  After a time Liz opened the door and asked everyone to come back inside. And Will saw that she had
her answer. The color had come back to her skin. She looked satisfied. “I want to raise him,” she said. “He’s a good little soul, and he needs a mum. What’s his name?”

  “We was goin’ to call him Jacob, but that was the name Rosemary liked. I guess you could call him somethin’ else.”

  “No. It’s a good name, and Rosemary should have that much—the right to name him. I hope she knows, right now, that I’ll raise him up to her, and always honor her name in our house, once he’s old enough to understand.”

  “That’s what I would hope,” Brother Clarkston said. “An’ I would like it if he can know he has a dad, if that would be aw right.”

  Will wondered. How confusing would that be? But Liz was assuring Oscar that that would be fine with her. Will had wanted to talk to Liz first before this all happened, but it was no use. There was no way he could disagree with her decision at this point. Her sadness seemed gone, and he hadn’t expected that to happen for a long time.

  Chapter 7

  Will returned to his roadwork the next morning. It had not been an easy night with little Jacob waking often, but Liz had fed him well, and as Will had watched her in the dim light emitted by the fire—which Will got up and stirred a couple of times—he saw in her face a contentment he had not expected. She had always been lively and busy, but as she sat in her rocking chair by the fireplace and watched the little one nurse, he had the feeling she had found a peace she had never known in her life.

  Will was behind schedule now, and there was a great deal to accomplish. He was cutting a road through prairie ground southeast of Nauvoo. There had been a few trees to fell and stumps to pull, but most of the work was plowing through heavy sod, and then, once it was turned and had dried, scraping a level path with an oxen-drawn grader.

  Grading was slow work, done mostly one surveyor’s 66-foot chain-length at a time. The problem was, Will’s corn at the Big Field had been ready for some time, and a fair part of it had still not been harvested. Will had set Jesse and Dan to work cutting the corn, but that meant he had to work alone on the road. He used three or four teams at a time, used voice commands, and scoured his own blade. It was tedious to work that way, but it was what he had done before he had hired anyone. He was just thankful that the weather was fair and he could make good progress—as he was able to do throughout most of October.

  On October 28 Will heard that Joseph Smith was home again, and two days later, on Sunday, Joseph preached to the Saints in the temple. The walls of the temple were only about four feet high, but a shipment of white pine had arrived from the pineries in Wisconsin, and workers had hurriedly put down a temporary floor on the joists that had been set earlier. Joseph spoke about the importance of the temple, of baptisms for the dead, of Zion in these last days. Sometimes Will worried about the weakness of some of the Saints, but on this wonderful day, with the colors of fall rich and golden along the river below, Will knew why he had come here, and he felt certain that in time the Saints really would prosper together just as Joseph so often promised.

  After the meeting, Liz and Will walked back to their house. Will was carrying Jacob. “This boy is heavy,” Will told Liz. “He’s getting fat.”

  “Oh, Will, he’s come so far,” Liz said. Jacob was not yet six weeks old, but he had grown so much that he hardly seemed the same baby. Liz was smiling, her pretty green eyes full of light. “But do you think I feed him too much?”

  “He’s good and strong, Liz—and he never would have survived without you.”

  Liz took hold of Will’s arm. “I think he’s happy, too. I play with him, and he makes little sounds, almost like he’s learning how to laugh.”

  Liz laughed herself, and Will watched her, happy to see her so pleased. “I don’t doubt it for a minute. I’d be happy too if you’d play with me that way.”

  She tightened her grip. “Oh, don’t be jealous. I still love you the most.”

  Actually, she had seemed much closer to him lately, the life coming back into her chatter and her affection for him returning. “I have nothing to complain about,” he said. “Except that I have to spend such long days away from you and Jacob. I’m almost looking forward to the first snow, just to spend some days at home.”

  “That’s my hope too, Will. Jacob and I get along fine, but the days do seem long when you’re gone so many hours. It’s good that I have my schoolchildren. They keep me busy.”

  “And wear you out.”

  “I have been tired lately. But who isn’t? That’s just the way life is.”

  Will had tried to convince Liz not to start a school now that they had Jacob, but she liked the idea of contributing something to their income. She was teaching only five students, but the children’s parents paid her $2.00 each for a twelve-week term of reading, writing, and spelling. Three of the children stayed longer for grammar, geography, and history, and they paid another $2.50 each, so that was $17.50 for the term. People paid her mostly in chickens and produce and the like, but those were commodities she could either use or trade at the general stores in town. Besides, she liked the children, and Will noticed that she liked to tell people she was a teacher.

  “Tell me this,” Will said. “Did we do the right thing in coming here? Should we have stayed at the Crawfords’ farm?”

  “We put our hands to the plow, Will; there’s no looking back now.” She walked a little faster and playfully pretended to pull him along. “You just didn’t know it would require quite so much plowing.”

  It was true. Will had liked being the farm manager, not the plowman. “But back in England,” he said, “we never would have heard a sermon like the one we heard today. It’s what we hoped for in coming here, and it all seems worth it when Joseph is with us.”

  “I do feel blessed,” Liz said. “I wondered for a time if the Lord had forgotten us, but I know better now. I won’t be so quick to question Him in the future.”

  “And yet, you still miss little Mary Ann, don’t you?”

  “I’ll always miss her, Will. You know that. But Jacob keeps my mind off her, and I love him more than I ever thought I could.”

  “Aye. It’s how I feel, too.”

  But Will knew that it was easy to trust the Lord after a test had ended and better times had returned. He still wondered what other tests might be coming in their lives.

  • • •

  Liz had thrilled to the Prophet’s words, and she had drawn strength from such a large gathering of Saints, but as days passed afterwards, it was not easy to remain quite so satisfied with life. She enjoyed her time with her pupils most days, but every morning she had far too much to do. Will left so early that she didn’t have a chance to get breakfast for him. He would pack corn pones or a loaf of ash bread from last night’s fire and cut himself a large wedge of cheese to take with him, and then he would be off for the day. Most days Liz was still very sleepy from being up with Jacob during the night, and she had to feed and bathe him in the morning while she was also planning out what she would teach the children.

  What was worse was when Will would slaughter a hog and leave her with the meat to cure, or she would have fruit to dry, and every day there was milk to churn and butter to make. She was learning all these arts, but she was still not very good at any of them, and she was inefficient. Nelly advised her or came over and helped her, but Nelly was a busy woman too, and Liz felt bad when she asked too much of her.

  Will was good about felling trees, chopping firewood, hauling in water from the well, and all the rest—but the man rarely did anything but work, and she never liked to ask him to do more than he was already doing. That meant that every morning, while everything else had to be done, Liz had to carry Jacob out to the cowshed, lay him in a little box she kept for that purpose, and then milk the cow. More than once she had nursed the baby and done her best to milk “Sister Brown”—as Will called the cow—at the same time. She had spilled some buckets that w
ay, too.

  Was she happy? She didn’t really ask herself that question very often. Sometimes she realized, however, that she felt more useful, more worthwhile, than she ever had in her life. And Jacob, demanding as he was in his way, provided a joy she had never known anything about. Those minutes she would steal to laugh with him and bounce him were the best of her day.

  One morning, after Jacob had gone down for a nap, Liz was churning butter when someone knocked on the door. She expected to see Nelly Baugh, but when she opened the door, she was surprised. It was Eliza Snow—a woman she knew from the Female Relief Society meetings she had attended. She hadn’t thought that Sister Snow had even known who she was.

  “I’m Sister Snow. I—”

  “Yes, I know. Come in. It’s so nice of you to stop by.”

  “You might not think so after I explain what I have in mind,” Eliza said. She smiled and glanced down at a brown-paper bundle she was carrying under one arm. She had always seemed rather formal to Liz—and serious. Liz wondered what she might want.

  “What is it I can do for you?” Liz asked. She motioned to a wooden chair near the fireplace. The weather had turned cold the last few days, and Liz was now keeping a fire all day. “Sit down, please.”

  “I won’t stay long. No doubt, you’re very busy.” Sister Snow was wearing a heavy, dark cloak with a hood, which she now pushed back. Her face was flushed from the cold, and no doubt from walking up the hill, but she was a handsome woman, thin and fairly tall, with dark eyes and dark hair parted down the middle and pulled tight against her head. Liz guessed that she must be around forty, even though she looked younger. She sat down, but she held herself erect on the chair, looking quite prim. “Sister Lewis, I heard about the loss of your baby. And now I’ve been told that you’ve taken in a child not your own.”