Morning Star

by Marian Wells

  Frowning, Mark said, “You don’t like the color? I bought the heaviest one I could find. It’s a boudoir gown. I thought with the baby—”

  “Oh,” she whispered, and Tom wondered at the relief in her voice and then he began to chuckle as she explained, “it’s beautiful. I just wondered for a moment if I were to wear it to church.” Mark began to laugh, but Tom saw she still wore the strange expression.

  “With the size you are getting to be and the color,” Tom shook his head, “you’d be a sensation!”

  Mark was grinning as he went to kiss Jenny, saying, “Merry Christmas, my dear wife. I’m sorry the sleigh isn’t here. I just can’t risk you now.”

  “Young’uns don’t grow on trees,” Tom said dryly, feeling a relief he couldn’t identify when Jenny lifted a radiant smile to Mark.

  That relief stretched through the following day, and Tom discovered that Helene wasn’t all that bad.

  When Tom returned to Nauvoo Christmas night, he shook his head over the doings at the Mansion House.

  Sitting horseback outside the house, looking at the line of carriages, and listening to the roar of masculine voices rising above the fiddles, he slowly said, “One thing, with the twirling and dipping going on, and the eating and drinking, I’d say the Lord’s up to changing the emphasis again. Back in Kirtland days”—now he was addressing the white uniformed men standing guard at the gate—“back then there was no unholy frolic. ’Twas good business to be sober and holy. Times have changed.”

  Shaking his head, he rode toward the livery stable. But inside, Tom looked at the cold forge and with a troubled frown he said, “Leaves a body wondering. Will this church end up as cold and lifeless as all the others? I feel the high tide of excitement giving way to secret whispers which bode no good.”

  He went upstairs to his lonely room. With a sense of relief, he stoked the little sheet metal stove into cherry-red comfort.

  He looked around his barren chamber and addressed the festoon of cobwebs. “Not likely I’ll get married unless forced into it. Me and the dirt are comfortable. Even the smell of horses I don’t object to. Besides, I can’t afford a wife—or two or three.” He glumly surveyed the Book of Mormon resting on the wooden crate beside his bed.

  He was thinking of the barroom whispers the men were passing around along with the drinks. “Is having more’n one wife the way to beat the doldrums the church is having? Or is there a bigger reason for it?” He shook his head and wondered at the dismay in his own heart. There were shadows in Jenny’s eyes, too. Could Mark have been touched for the teaching? With a regretful sigh Tom admitted to himself that he could very likely be next.

  As he pulled the kettle of water over the heat, Tom was thinking of his initiation into Masonry last spring and now into this new council.

  When he finally moved and sighed again, he said, “One thing’s sure. Mark’s joined up in Joseph’s high priesthood, and they’re teaching the way to earn salvation is through having more’n one wife. Right now he’s not the most gladsome individual alive, and seems his confidence has slipped, but I guess I can trust him.” He frowned. But what about Jenny’s wan cheeks and her shadowy eyes?

  Tom tried to imagine how his sister would feel about sharing her home with another woman. It was impossible, but he guessed her expression told him something. “Makes a body wish there were a different way to get into God’s good graces.” He shook his head and sighed. It was John Taylor himself who said the teaching would last forever because a revelation, once given, wouldn’t ever be taken back.

  The twenty-seventh of December dawned crystal clear, full of sunshine. As Mark rode into Nauvoo he considered the week before him. He knew Joseph would be leaving for the Springfield trial immediately.

  The church had engaged the District Attorney for the state of Illinois to handle the case; when Mark found out, he breathed a sigh of relief. He now could easily decline Joseph’s invitation to be part of the group traveling to the city.

  Later in the day, Mark stood in the doorway of the office and watched the men set out for Springfield. Just as they had earlier escorted the Prophet to the office, now John Taylor and Orson Hyde, on either side of Joseph Smith, supported him as he cautiously stepped down the stairs. Obviously the Prophet still suffered from his exuberant celebration of Christmas.

  As the trio left, Mark found himself shaking his head over the picture. The subdued Prophet, with dark circles under his eyes, hung on Taylor’s arm, walking as if each step jarred clear through his frame.

  Mark walked back into his office, chuckling and shaking his head. Patty Sessions was waiting, and noting his humor, she released her sharp tongue. “Why are you rejoicing over his misery? Seems a body can always pick out a man who thinks he’s abused by the Prophet. A body who loves him sure won’t be gleeful over his misery.”

  “What makes you think I feel mistreated?” Mark asked, astonished. Without answering, she pressed her lips together. Mark began wondering why his bruised spirit was so evident to others. He thought it carefully hidden.

  Jenny’s new sleigh was delivered just after the first of the year, the day before Joseph and his men returned to Nauvoo.

  Mark had been standing at his office window when he became aware of the surge of excited people, and the sound of drums and bugles.

  Within hours all of Nauvoo knew of the victory, and the city reverberated with the sounds of celebration. The people continued to crowd the streets to welcome their Prophet, and Mark went down to join them.

  Later Mark carried home an invitation to dinner at the Mansion House, explaining to Jenny that all the city notables and church leaders had been invited to a gala dinner the following evening.

  When Mark gave his news, he couldn’t help grinning at Jenny’s bright-eyed joy. “Yes, my dear wife, we’ll go. My neck was saved by the sleigh, wasn’t it?”

  “Did you join the parade? I suppose the Legion was out in all their glory. Will Sally and Andy be there? What about Emma? ’Tis so sad that her baby died.” Now she was sober, and for a moment Mark responded to her secret fear.

  For the first time in weeks, Mark scooped Jenny up to sit in the rocking chair with him. “Your questions? Yes, yes, and I don’t know.” He was forcing the grin, trying to seem lighthearted over the sudden awareness of the blue-veined fragility of her face, and weight of the child moving against him.

  He resisted the desire to crush her to him and unburden himself of all the hidden fears. Lightly he said, “My dear, you need to rest if you intend being out half the night.”

  “Rest!” she wailed, “I must find something to wear that will fit around me. Oh, Mark, do I look awful?”

  “You are beautiful,” he said. With a sharp pang he added, “I don’t want to risk you unnecessarily.”

  She leaned back and he saw the questions. “Is that why you—you are always busy?”

  He pressed his lips to her forehead, “Am I too busy?” She was nodding and he felt the moisture against his face. “What shall I do for you?”

  “Oh, Mark—talk.” She leaned back to look into his face, but even as she lifted her hand to touch his lips, he remembered the shrinking away, the shadows. Because he feared those shadows as much as she, he held her close, hiding his face in her hair.

  The next evening was crisp and the snow sang beneath the runners of the new sleigh. “Oh, Mark, it’s wonderful!” Jenny cried from the depths of the buffalo robe. “It rides as smooth as ice skating. See even Tupper loves it.” She pointed at the mare swishing her tail.

  Jenny’s cheeks were pink and her eyes were sparkling, reminding him of a time long ago. “You remember ice skating.”

  She only nodded, but he could see her eyes were soft with gentle memories. He found himself wishing to hold the moment, but wishing even more desperately, to wing back through the years. “The beautiful young Jenny,” he murmured. With a pang of regret, he saw his words brought back the shadows.

  The Mansion House glowed with lamps in every windo
w. There was music and the sound of laughter and clink of dishes. As Mark and Jenny stepped through the door, Jenny looked toward the stairwell.

  The sweep of polished stairs was empty of all except memories. Jenny stared at that spot and remembered the horror of Eliza tumbling and screaming. She shivered under her shawl as she followed the crowd into the parlor.

  A pale-faced Emma, isolated in her chair by the hearth, her figure swathed in black, was the only somber note in the room.

  For several minutes, Jenny stood near the back of the crowded room and wrapped her shawl tightly around herself as she listened to Joseph. She wondered if her condition were making him seem a braggart. He was giving every detail of his trip to Springfield and the trial while his audience hung on every word. She found herself watching his face, but his words slipped passed her.

  In a few minutes, Jenny moved slowly through the visitors to that dark-clad figure by the fire. As she walked, her attention was caught by the expressions of those around her.

  Sarah Pratt blocked Jenny’s path. She lifted her face, saw Jenny’s figure, and smiled broadly. But Jenny was struck by that first expression.

  Only Sarah’s face, of all those in the room, reflected complete boredom. Their eyes met again and Sarah murmured, “Jenny, you are looking well.” Then she turned abruptly, and Jenny went on.

  Emma pointed to the chair beside her. “Oh, Emma,” Jenny whispered under the cover of the excited outburst around them, “I’m so sorry you’ve lost your baby.”

  “Was it punishment? No.” Her lips twisted, knowing that only she and Jenny shared the memory of that last time together. “I’ve had eight babies and only three survive. Jenny, I am getting to be an old woman. Where does it all end?” Jenny saw her fear and bowed her head. When she next looked, the small polite smile was back, and Emma was extending a limp, powerless hand to the gentleman beside her.

  After dinner, when the group had reshifted and settled into new comfortable segments, Jenny found herself shuffled toward the end of the room. Wedging into a chair beside the door, she loosened the concealing shawl and picked up a book to use as a fan.

  She heard a murmur of voices behind her, coming from the kitchen. Recognizing Mark’s voice, she went into the hallway.

  Joseph and Mark, with their backs to her, were in the kitchen talking to another man. As Jenny hesitated, Joseph reached out to take the paper extended toward him. The men shifted and Jenny saw Orson Pratt.

  Before she could make her presence known, he was saying, “He considered me a dissenter. He’s accused me of having designs of my own.” The light flooded the expression on his face. Distaste filled Jenny at the overweening manner of the man as he continued, “Little did he dream I would use the letter to advantage.”

  Joseph was reading and murmuring, “Written at Springfield. Wonder if he was at the trial? It wouldn’t surprise me at all. Addressed to you and Rigdon, huh? Well, let’s see . . .”

  In a moment he said thoughtfully, “Thank you, Pratt, you’ve done me a great favor. Mark, says here that Bennett’s had contact with Missouri authorities. Now in the making is an attempt to revive the old charges. He’s mentioning murder, arson, theft, larceny, and stealing. Well, well, my dear Dr. Bennett, seems we’re one up on you.”

  Jenny was beside Mark when Joseph raised his head to study Pratt’s face. “You’ve done me a favor, Pratt—is it more than just a bid for recognition? You’ve been rebaptized into the church, you and your wife. Is there something else you want?”

  The man’s voice was low, “Just my old position. I want to be back in the Quorum of Twelve. Might even be a good example, encouragement to others, seeing me back where I belong.”

  Joseph clapped him on the shoulder, “Wanting to be our gauge of philosophy again, eh, professor? Well, we need you nearly as much as you need us.”

  Jenny and Mark were silent as they rode homeward. Once Jenny roused herself to comment on the dinner. But she faced Mark’s dark scowl and dared not reveal her own churning emotions.

  Chapter 23

  “Mark. You’ll be at the meeting tonight?”

  Mark lifted his head and saw Joseph lounging in the doorway of the office. “Huh? Yes, Joseph, I’ll be there. Sorry. I was in the middle of this and didn’t hear you.” He gestured toward the book he had been reading and got to his feet. Unexpectedly his eyes met those of William Clayton.

  The hang-dog expression in the eyes of Joseph’s secretary caught his attention. He hesitated, but Joseph jerked his head toward his own office and turned away. Mark sighed in frustration. Sharing office space with Clayton created problems; but, he had to admit as he shuffled the papers on his desk, the problems seemed related to Joseph’s desire for secrecy.

  Slowly Mark picked up the brief and started to follow the Prophet, but Clayton’s expression nagged at his attention. Why was the man constantly in a state of tension?

  Joseph was at his desk with his feet up, placed in the middle of the papers, and his hands clasped behind his head. “What’s Clayton finding to complain about?”

  “Why, I don’t think he was.” Mark frowned with the effort to remember the man’s words. “Honestly, I wasn’t paying him much attention. He does ramble at times. Oh, seems he was talking about your sermon. Joseph, you can’t be checking on everything that’s happening,” he said in exasperation.

  Then he continued, “Jenny and I didn’t get out this last Sabbath. It was too cold, and her time is getting close.” For a moment Mark saw interest flare in the Prophet’s eyes. Anger surged through Mark, but holding his voice even he continued, “Clayton mentioned you’d talked about the kingdom of God, and I asked him to define kingdom. He said where the oracles of God are given, there is the kingdom. I guess my attention drifted after that.”

  “Do you agree?”

  “Jesus Christ said His kingdom isn’t of this world. Oracles is an Old Testament word I’m not very familiar with. Right now the only scripture I can think of dealing with oracle is where the prophets are warned against declaring their own words as oracles of the Lord.”

  Joseph paused for a moment and then nodded. “’Tis a fearful thing to take upon one’s self the burden of claiming the Lord’s word when it isn’t.”

  He leaned forward. “About this priesthood meeting. I know you’ve bucked counsel, but I believe I can rescue you from apostasy. The Lord has shown me great and wonderful things which are to be unfolded before the Saints in the coming months and years.”

  Mark shifted restlessly. “You’ll insist even when you know how I believe?”

  “To your soul’s salvation.” As he continued speaking, Mark was caught in a moment of seeing Joseph through the eyes of a stranger. There was something very compelling about the man. His pale eyes gleamed with the new idea, while the expression lighting his face momentarily touched Mark with a tingle of excitement.

  “Mark, there’s lots about the priesthood meetings which is old hat. Business and the mundane of kingdom planning. But believe me, if you’ll handle counsel, I promise you there’ll be no regrets.” Again Mark saw the flare of excitement. After a moment’s hesitation Joseph said, “Might as well let a little of this slip. If I can’t trust you to keep it quiet until the appointed time, then who—”

  Mark watched Joseph flexing the steel letter opener until Mark expected to see it fly from his hands. It still held his fascinated gaze as Joseph continued, “The Lord’s told me now’s the time to begin the organization of the kingdom.

  “There’s been just a few of us in meeting, planning and discussing in preparation. It’s all great and far-reaching; I must start by recruiting every man of intelligence and integrity in the church.”

  Mark was lining up all he had heard: the facts, the whispers, even the expressions of doubt and fear. He was readying his refusal when words thrown into air dropped into his mind with understanding: rule the world, king, President of the United States.

  But Joseph wasn’t waiting for his answer. He moved on to a new subjec
t. “Mark, I know you started bucking this all when you heard about the Lodge coming to town. Man, I tell you, if you haven’t vision and faith to grasp all this on your own, at least for your soul’s welfare, be willing to accept on the faith of the others.”

  Joseph paused and leaned forward, searching Mark’s face with those penetrating eyes. He whispered, “This is from God. Mark, I was utterly compelled to embrace the teaching. Would it help if I were to tell you God revealed to me new information about the order of Masons? He told me this is the ancient wisdom. The same priesthood was given to the first father, Adam. Later it was passed on to the great fathers, Noah and such. By the time it reached Solomon, it had become corrupted. What has happened now is that God has restored it to us in all its pristine beauty and holiness. It is to be part of the deep inner workings of the kingdom.”

  “Including the secret rituals?” Mark added. “This is the type of thing the Book of Mormon speaks against.” He paused and then added, “Why is it the church is departing from the original revelations?”

  “It isn’t.”

  “I ran into David Whitmer and William McLellin in Springfield last November. We had quite a talk. They had a lot of questions about the church and Nauvoo.”

  “Yeah?” Joseph’s face brightened. “They coming back?”

  “I doubt it. They brought up some pretty hard questions, and I couldn’t find an answer that would satisfy you.”

  “What questions?”

  “Well, for a starter, they answered a question I’d had since I heard about it, related to the big to-do when the Kirtland temple was dedicated. I knew you’d promised there would be a tremendous endowment for the men, particularly those who’d been part of the army sent to rescue the Saints in Jackson, Missouri. A few had told me the endowment was a great success. Both Whitmer and McLellin said it was a trumped-up farce. Not only a failed revelation but a sham of the lowest kind perpetuated by suggestion and wine.”

  “Anything else?” Joseph asked.

  “Have you made the statement that the revelations are the recorded words of the Lord Jesus Christ?”