The Heart that Truly Loves

by Susan Evans McCloud

  © 1994 by Bookcraft, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, at permissions@deseretbook.com or PO Box 30178, Salt Lake City, Utah 84130. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book Company.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Bookcraft is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.

  Visit us at deseretbook.com

  First printing in hardbound 1994

  First printing in paperbound 2019

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 94-78750

  ISBN 0-88494-952-4 (hardbound)

  ISBN 978-1-62972-702-8 (paperbound)

  eISBN 978-1-62973-862-8 (eBook)

  Printed in the United States of America

  Alexander’s Print Advantage, Lindon, UT

  JIT

  This book is for

  Matthew D. England,

  my brother,

  who is also soul of my soul,

  With love

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  It was twilight on Beacon Hill. The cool shadows of afternoon that flecked the quiet, tree-lined streets were tinted now by a sky the color of damask roses. The Charles River stretched like a broad gold ribbon beneath the purple silhouettes of tower and steeple that rose like dark veins against a dun-blue sweep of clear, cloudless sky.

  Inside the red brick house on Walnut Street, no lamps had been lit yet. In the narrow entry hall two girls stood with their heads close together.

  “She would not! Even your mother would not dare,” Millie breathed in sympathy.

  “Mother would dare anything, I fear. Especially since Father’s death.” Verity spat out the words. The waning light that slanted through the leaded windows made her red hair glow like a wreath of fire about her head.

  “Mormon missionaries right here in the minister’s house.” Millie’s awed voice trembled with the shame of it. “Beggin’ your pardon, Verity, but your father would turn over in his grave if he knew.”

  Verity stamped her small, booted foot in agitation. The color was high in her cheeks. She had the same “touchy Irish blood,” as Millie called it, that ran through her mother’s veins, and any contest between the two was never pretty. But this, like the rest, would end in triumph for Judith. After all, she was both matron and head of the household now. And Judith had a long and successful history of learning how to get what she wanted from life.

  “You’ll have to give in at the end, so you may as well do so gracefully,” Millie advised.

  “I’ll not give in this time.” Verity’s voice held a note Millie had not heard from her before. “She is disgracing everything he ever stood for, Millie. Not to speak of the shame and ridicule she is bringing down on our heads.”

  “Say your prayers, and don’t give up hope. Perhaps we’ll think of something to do before tomorrow night comes.” Millie gave her friend’s hand a gentle squeeze before slipping past her and up the stairs to the little room where she did her sewing. She was completing a frock that the lady of the house had ordered, a difficult piece with a scalloped and embroidered hem and multiple ruffles at the wrists. She wondered suddenly if Judith meant to sport it the following evening when the Mormonites came. She wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she did.

  The four Mormon men did appear for a meeting in the house of the late and most distinguished Reverend Anthony Thatcher the following evening. And his widow, Judith Boyle Thatcher, did wear a new gown fashioned by her hired seamstress, Millicent Cooper. And the widow’s two daughters, Leah and Verity, sat on either side of her and behaved most properly as the guests filed in. If Leah was a little too exuberant to cover her nervousness and Verity a little stiff to conceal her disdain, it was of no matter; they knew none of the guests, and none of the guests there knew them. The group that gathered in their father’s parlor to listen to the Mormons preach heresy was a mixed selection of middle-class merchants and lower-class working men—many of them Irish, Verity noticed, and called them “raggle tags” in her mind.

  Leah was bored from start to finish. There was not one male member of the company young enough or handsome enough for her to flirt with, except perhaps one of the men who was preaching, and she did not dare to flirt with him. In contrast with her family, Leah had never liked religion much, nor had she cared to make an effort to understand it. She had enjoyed attending the Unitarian meetings because the old church house was such a beautiful place. And her father looked so solemn and powerful, so kindly and knowing, standing at the pulpit. And people were kind, and obviously deferential to the preacher’s wife and daughters, and it was all very nice.

  The meeting in the parlor began with a prayer, and that was Verity’s undoing. How dare these Mormons speak to God in such common, everyday terms, in such a nonchalant way? She thought of her father’s rich, sonorous voice and his grand, ringing phrases and pressed back against her chair, wishing she could dissolve into the very wood of it. Then the sweet chords of the opening hymn began, led by the man with the full auburn beard, who did have a deep, true bass voice:

  A mighty fortress is our God,

  A tower of strength ne’er failing.

  A helper mighty is our God,

  O’er ills of life prevailing . . .

  Her father’s favorite hymn. Without closing her eyes she could see him standing above the congregation, tall and ramrod straight, but somehow with a vitality, even a gracefulness to the lines of his body. He would sing with a steady, confident voice, and his eyes held the music. The warmth of those eyes reached out to each member of the congregation almost like a caress, with his love drawing each one to him and, at the same time, drawing love and spiritual devotion from their hearts to his, and upward, ever upward . . .

  The man was speaking, the man with the beard. Verity forced her mind to listen. If she were to defend herself, her own ways against theirs, she must know what they professed to believe.

  “I will begin with some of the first principles which God has revealed, and which it is necessary for mankind to obey before they can constitute a part and portion of Zion. Before the Church of the living God can have any existence on the earth, it is very important and necessary that there should be divine administrators . . .”

  What did he mean, this stranger? Where was he going with such a remark? Verity felt her heart begin to pound rapidly. She put her hand to her
chest.

  “What I mean by this is, there must be men who have a divine call—being called of the Lord by the spirit of revelation. We must not suppose that God is the author of all these different methods and sects, that he sent all these different ministers. How should true messengers of heaven be sent? In what way . . .”

  Verity stole a glance at her mother. What in the world was she thinking? It was like a slap in the face to her father! This rude, bearded upstart!

  “. . . Never was a dispensation since God made man on the earth wherein a message was sent to the human family unless there was revelation connected with it, unless the ministers who bore that message were divinely called by revelation. I need not go back . . .”

  This was insufferable! Verity pushed her chair back; the legs scraped noisily along the wood of the floor. If her mother thought her unmannerly, what matter? She walked from the room with as stately and dignified a carriage as she could muster. The drone of the powerful bass voice followed her until she put her hands to her ears and escaped into the kitchen, drawing the thick wooden door closed behind her.

  “Whatever are you doing here, Miss Verity? You should be out with the guests.” The kitchen maid looked up from her stirring with wide, startled eyes.

  “I should be precisely where I am, Nancy. Hold your tongue! Where is Millie? I must find Millie.” Verity fidgeted where she stood, despite her resolve of control.

  “Right here, Verity.” Millie’s head appeared at the door of the pantry. “Help me carry these plates, and tell me all about it.”

  Millie was two years younger than Verity, just Leah’s age. But she had always seemed older and steadier. That’s why she had proved such an invaluable help in their household following the death of her own father. “A bunch of flighty women”—that’s what she had called them after her first day in their service. But she had spoken the words with a smile. And who, in all truth, could gainsay her?

  Verity set her mouth and strode purposefully toward the pantry. Nancy rolled her eyes, but knew enough to say nothing. Millie thought, Her Irish blood is up for certain. There’s fire in her eyes. What in mercy’s sake is going on out in the parlor?

  Every guest had departed, every chair put back in its place, every crumb swept off the table and the worn Turkish carpets before Judith sought out her daughter. The hour was late. She found Verity in the room she shared with her sister. Leah was already a comfortable-looking clump beneath the bedclothes, but Verity sat at the rosewood dressing table, brushing her hair. At a nod from her mother she rose and went out of the room, grabbing a thick paisley shawl to wrap around her shoulders against the night chill of the house.

  She followed her mother dutifully until they were safely in Judith’s room and the door was shut behind them. This room would always remind Verity more of her father than of her mother. It had a dark, manly air that came from the solid mahogany furniture, the heavy bedhangings, and the deep rusts and burgundies in the patterned wallpaper. And there were books, his books lying about on the tables and on the cushioned settee in the corner, as though his hand had just placed them there and would draw them up again at any moment.

  “What have you to say for yourself, Verity? I will give you the chance to speak.”

  Always the democratic one, my mother, Verity thought with some resentment. She drew herself up, unconsciously squaring her shoulders for the encounter.

  “What defense need I make, Mother? Yours is the part that offends.”

  She felt rather than heard the sharp intake of breath as her mother strove to govern her emotions.

  “Everything that man said in this house was an insult to Father. His mere presence here was an affront, Mother. And you endured it! You—”

  Judith raised up her arm as though warding off the words. Verity paused. Dare she go further?

  “You are not entirely accurate in your assessment, Verity. And if you were, even then it is your duty to be gracious and conduct yourself like a lady. Nothing gives you the right to insult your mother and the guests she chooses to bring here.” Judith was warming to her subject as she always did, her voice rising a little, her words coming more quickly. “If anything in tonight’s proceedings would have offended your father, it would be your behavior. You shame his memory, Verity.”

  The accusation was too painful to bear. Verity shuddered and hid her face in her hands, wishing with a physical longing that she could flee the room, flee the burden of her mother’s presence.

  She felt the warm pressure of a slight hand on her arm. How could her mother be so delicate and yet so ferociously strong?

  “I am sorry, Verity. But there really is much here you do not understand. Moreover, it is obvious that you do not trust me. You cannot imagine the pain that brings to my heart.” Judith sighed. The hand on Verity’s arm moved lightly back and forth in a gentle, caressing motion. “Do you believe I would do anything to betray your father?”

  Mother always wins, one way or another, Verity thought. Why do I even attempt the impossible? She felt suddenly drained and weary. With a small, trembling sigh of her own, she conceded. “Tomorrow is the Sabbath, Mother. What shall we do?”

  “Go to meeting as usual, daughter.”

  Verity could not suppress a shudder at the thought. “In front of everyone? What if Reverend Seabury will not admit us? What if he rebukes us from the pulpit—”

  “Wirra, wirra,” Judith crooned, lapsing into the Irish as she always did at such moments. “You fret far too much. You always have, dear.” With the faintest hint of a smile at the corners of her full mouth, she added, “I know how to handle John Seabury.”

  “But why all this, Mother? Why?”

  Judith paused. “I’m not certain I can answer that to your satisfaction. Not now, now yet.”

  Verity was aware of the shadow that crossed her mother’s features and made her look suddenly young and vulnerable, less than her thirty-eight years. She was a fine-looking woman; neither herself nor Leah had turned out as pretty. Her father used to say, with unmistakable pride in his eyes, that it was her pure Irish blood that set her above most other women.

  “. . . There is something about this religion,” Judith was saying. She shook her head slightly. “I cannot explain it myself . . .”

  Verity yawned, trying to cover the offense with a cold hand.

  “It’s bedtime and past,” Judith said. “Off with you, now. Things will look easier in the morning, I promise.”

  Verity wasn’t so sure. She may have felt somewhat reconciled to her mother; it was impossible for most people to stay angry with Judith, and she was no exception. But as for the rest . . .

  She climbed into bed beside Leah and rested her head on the down pillow, which was soft but cold to the touch. It was the cold that stayed with her. She fancied she felt the chill on her heart, too deep and aching for her to dislodge, before her eyes closed in sleep.

  Chapter Two

  Verity dawdled on purpose the following morning, stalling for time, terrified at the prospect of arriving early to meeting. If they could but slip in unseen—and unquestioned—and then escape in like manner! She pretended a clumsy and befuddled mood, and, in truth, she did have a headache. But Judith gave her no quarter. In fact, she sent Millicent up to assist her and prevent any undue delays. So it was that they approached the corner of Tremont and School Streets only three minutes later than usual by the reckoning of the little gold breast watch Judith wore pinned to the lapel of her coat.

  The black stone church looked cold and forbidding beneath the lowering March sky. Verity held tight to Millie’s hand and led her straight to their pew, merely nodding to those they happened to meet in their quick passage. Millie didn’t mind. Though this was not her church, nor her way of life that was being threatened, her sympathies were all with Verity. She knew how important appearances were to her. And, to be fair to her friend, much more than appearances was
at stake here. If Judith were her mother, she would have felt every bit as mortified.

  Judith greeted her friends as usual. Her direct, friendly approach disarmed them. They might talk of her behind her back, but none dared denounce her here and now, as many had hoped to. Leah stood by her side, her tender innocence as much a defense as Judith’s calculated aggressiveness. Together they had their way. But then, Judith had learned early how to combat prejudice and the narrow limitations of what was considered acceptable in Boston society. When she had come here as a bride—too young, too red-haired, too Irish—she had had no other choice. She had learned quickly, and though at first her frankness had been an offense to most, it was the only way she could maintain her identity in their midst. With the gentle support of her husband she was able to win them over, or at least reconcile them to her ways. Judith had long since ceased to worry about it. She was one of those rare individuals who had learned to be herself, not what others expected of her. Well she knew that, as widow of their beloved minister and leader, she was going too far this time. There would be no clemency, no forgiveness extended, but for the time being, before she had made up her mind for certain, it would buy her the interval of time she so badly needed.

  The meeting was long. The muscles in Verity’s shoulders and neck began to ache. She drew a deep breath and tried to relax, allowing her eyes to wander about the room. King’s Chapel was Boston’s first Unitarian church. It was said that its pulpit was the oldest in all of America. The English royal governors once worshiped here, and the church was the proud possessor of costly silver and vestments presented by King George II and Queen Anne. Even the organ, which she was so used to hearing week after week, had come from England before the Revolution. It was said that Handel himself had selected the instrument at the request of King George. How things must have changed since those days! William Howe prayed here, and General Thomas Gage, and even Washington himself. She could not picture the great man, who seemed more than a mere human, doing the things that she did, living as ordinary men did. What would he think if he were alive now, sitting in this congregation? The notion warmed her somehow and lightened her mood, rather than depressing it.