Without waiting for her reaction, he placed one foot on a rounded hillock of marsh grass and began:
Some men plow the open plains, some men sail the brine,
But I’m in love with a pretty girl; for work I have no time.
My truly, truly fair, truly, truly fair,
How I love my truly fair,
There are songs to sing her, trinkets to bring her,
Flowers for her golden hair.
Millie was smiling, but she couldn’t help herself.
“Golden hair,” he said. “This song was written about a girl like yourself. Listen to the second verse”:
Once I sailed from Boston Bay bound for Singapore,
One night out I missed her so, I swam right back to shore.
He laughed in the delight of the bright tune and lyrics.
My truly, truly fair, truly, truly fair,
How I love my truly fair,
There are songs to sing her, trinkets to bring her,
Flowers for her golden hair.
The music of his voice seemed to end on a long, pleasant sigh. He settled down in obvious contentment on the sand, but not too near where she sat.
“Your pie was the best I have ever tasted,” he said, “and I do not exaggerate. Elder Howlitt much appreciated it and, fear not, Jonathan ate his fair share.”
“And the tea?”
“The tea helped! I should like more of it. And I wanted to return your dishes, but I was not certain I should.”
A sudden heaviness filled the air around them. “It would be all right, would it not, for you to return dishes to a neighbor?” she asked. “You need do no more than stand at the gate.” He said nothing. She did not look at his face. “I should be happy to brew another infusion of borage for your friend. Really. I am happy to hear that it helped.”
“What book have you there?” She could hear the tightness in his voice.
“A volume of Tennyson’s poetry.”
“Will you read to me? One of your favorites.”
She opened the cover very slowly and thumbed through the pages until she found what she was looking for. Could she trust her voice? She drew a deep breath and began:
What shall sever me from the love of home?
Shall the weary sea leagues of sounding foam?
Shall extreme distress, shall unknown disgrace,
Make my love the less for my sweet birth-place?
Tho’ my brains grow dry, fancy mew her wings,
And my memory forget all other things—
Tho’ I could not tell my left hand from my right—
I should know thee well, Home of my delight!
“That’s very lovely. I don’t know that. Have you others?”
Millie glanced through the pages. “There’s one here about sea fairies, but I do not think you should hear it, being what you are.” She stressed the last phrase slightly. “Here’s one you should like”:
O God! my God! have mercy now, I faint, I fall.
Men say that Thou didst die for me, for such as me . . .
Her words glided onto the air, pushing the feeling of oppression away. The sound of her voice, with the murmur of the sea beneath it, had a soothing effect, apart from the fine words themselves.
And what is left to me, but Thou, and faith in Thee?
Men pass me by; Christians with happy countenances—
And children all seem full of Thee!
And women smile with saint-like glances,
Like Thine own mother’s when she bowed above Thee,
on that happy morn,
When angels spoke to men aloud,
And Thou and peace to earth were born.
It was a lengthy poem, but Millicent read it straight through. When she finished she closed the book with a sigh.
“I don’t know your Tennyson,” Nicholas confessed. “But I should like to. Those seem inspired words.”
The air hung sweet between them. “What is your book?” she asked, catching sight for the first time of the volume tucked under his arm.
“One I am quite certain you are not familiar with,” he replied. “May I read you a passage or two?”
She nodded lightly. He opened the pages as though he knew right where he was going. “ ‘And it came to pass that he commanded that their little children should be brought. So they brought their little children and set them down upon the ground round about him, and Jesus stood in the midst; and the multitude gave way till they had all been brought unto him. And it came to pass that when they had all been brought, and Jesus stood in the midst, he commanded the multitude that they should kneel down upon the ground. And it came to pass that when they had knelt upon the ground, Jesus groaned within himself, and said: Father, I am troubled because of the wickedness of the people of the house of Israel. And when he had said these words—”
“Stop this minute! What are you reading me?” Millie sat bolt upright, her eyes smoldering. He held the book out. She read the words, printed in gold lettering across the cover: The Book of Mormon. She drew her breath in sharply. “I do not wish to hear. You have tricked me, and that is ungracious behavior toward one who has trusted you.”
“Trusted me to what, Miss Cooper? Trusted me to deal justly by you? That is what I am trying to do.”
She made a low sound in her throat that expressed her annoyance.
“There is naught in this book that can harm you,” he said gently. “Why do you fear it so?”
“I do not fear it, I abhor it!”
“Have you read it? Have you read even one page?”
Millicent glared at him.
“Are you brave enough and fair enough to allow me to complete this one small story, Miss Cooper?”
He had trapped her again. Resentful and tight-lipped, she nodded. Unbidden to her mind came the words that Verity had once spoken to her: “I am forcing myself to read the book nightly, Millie, and to be fair, there is much of interest contained in its pages.”
Nicholas was reading again. Millie caught the words in her mind unwilling, wishing she could push them away.
“ ‘. . . He himself also knelt upon the earth; and behold he prayed unto the Father, and the things which he prayed cannot be written, and the multitude did bear record who heard him. And after this manner do they bear record: The eye hath never seen, neither hath the ear heard, before, so great and marvelous things as we saw and heard Jesus speak unto the Father; and no tongue can speak, neither can there be written by any man, neither can the hearts of men conceive so great and marvelous things as we both saw and heard Jesus speak; and no one can conceive of the joy which filled our souls at the time we heard him pray for us unto the Father.’ ”
Millie rose. Her legs felt weak beneath her. “I really must go.” There was a ringing in her ears. The words he had spoken had broken through to her heart. She wanted to ask him, “Who were these people, that the Lord Jesus would pray for them? How was it so?” She had never prayed in her own life, not really. When her mother had died some anguish deep inside her had cried out through the darkness, longing for someone to hear, longing for someone to save and succor her. She blinked her eyes and looked out to the pale, restless sea.
“There is more.”
“It is late. See how dark it grows.” Millie caught up the blanket on which she had been sitting and shook out the sand. “Please, let me go.”
He said nothing more and made no move to detain her.
The sky was a darkening plain above Millie as she hastened homeward. The sea was a muffled roaring inside her head.
She went to bed early, but she could not sleep. She tossed and turned in her bed and suffered strange, erratic dreams she could make no sense of at all.
Nicholas Todd sat up late with his companion, administering to his needs. His mind was disturbed.
He read in his scriptures longer than was his habit, even though sleep thickened behind his eyelids. It was also his habit to pray on his knees before going to bed. He knelt there, pleading with heaven for a long, long time, needing more than ever before to feel his way through the mists and find the answers he sought.
Chapter Seven
Millie had not hoped for a letter so soon. When Almira Fenn’s youngest, Amos, brought it out to her on his rounds, she found it difficult to hold back the intensity of her feelings. He watched her as children do, with a straightforward and impersonal interest that was disarming. Knowing his mother as she did, Millie was certain the boy would be questioned concerning her reaction to so great a thing as mail that had traveled all the way from the Missouri territory to the edge of the east coast.
As soon as the boy was safely away, Millie sat in her mother’s rocker and hugged the letter to her, just savoring its reality, for a long, foolish time. She was almost afraid to open it and discover what had happened to her dear friends since they had parted. At last she slit the envelope and lifted out the thin, folded pages. The words Verity had penned were well formed, the lines crowded close against one another. Bless her heart, she had crammed in as much as any two sheets could hold. With trembling fingers Millie smoothed back the creases and started to read.
My dearest Millicent,
I take up my pen but know not where to begin in telling you the strange saga which now is our lives. We arrived safely in Far West, Missouri, which is known as the central gathering place of the Saints. It is a fair city that sits atop the highest swell of ground in this vast prairie country, where fields of corn and meadowlands stretch on all sides, as far as the eye can see. The city boasts above three thousand inhabitants, and more arriving each day—many who were converted in the British Isles and have made that long journey, leaving all behind them, to join with their fellows here. I had thought my own sacrifice so great, so to be admired! How small I feel, Millie dear. No one speaks in terms of “sacrifice” in this place. It is simply part of their way of living from day to day. And they embrace it as I don’t think I ever could!
I must say in truth that the people here are very kind to each other. They use the terms brother and sister most freely, but such still feels awkward to me. Everywhere the eye looks one sees growth and change—so many houses being built, and yet there are not nearly enough. We have found living quarters in one-half of a small home belonging to an elderly widow. She and her daughter (whose husband is dead) and her daughter’s four children dwell in the other half. The rooms are quite small, of course, but are adequate for our needs, and clean—thank heaven for that! Mother minds nothing. She loves the excitement in the air. She calls it “freedom of spirit,” claiming she has never felt less stifled, never more her true self. People like her, and she thrives. As for myself and Leah, we struggle more than Mother does, each in our separate way.
The strangest thing about these people is their cheerfulness in the face of hardship, and their fearlessness in the face of threat and real danger. I made a promise to myself not to complain, Millie, even to you. But this is not complaining, merely informing you of the facts as they do truly exist. Several years back the Mormons were gathered in Jackson County, in another portion of this same state, and the other settlers there, jealous of their unity and prosperity, formed themselves into an angry mob and drove them from their homes, stole their property, and left them destitute. And yet, these Mormons remain in such a hostile environment. Even now, in Far West, there are rumors of “enemy activity.” Enemy, Millie! Imagine the reality of living with real enemies at your back. Mother laughs at it. “We were raised in such a manner in Ireland, and we survived,” she says. I do fear sometimes that she almost enjoys it. I am frightened more than I let her see, and poor Leah is indeed like a ship without moorings. She has lost weight and appears more white of skin and frail than ever. If it were not for Elder Gray, or Edgar, as we now know him, I believe she would sicken and fade away like a lovely shadow.
Since you and I are at such a distance and communication between us so hazardous and yet so invaluable a thing, I will not demur, but rather speak my whole mind, knowing, as I do, your tender indulgence and quick and generous understanding. Brother Gray, no longer on an official mission, is free to court, and I fear that is what he is doing, with Mother’s approval. To tell you the truth, I at first believed he harbored an interest in me. But I think I tend to frighten him just a bit, or at least disconcert him. He is very tender with Leah and enjoys fussing over her. You can picture, I am sure, his big brown paw of a hand closed over hers, white and bird-thin. He brings her sweetmeats and small treats whenever he can manage it. Needless to say, Leah thrives, as she always has, on indulgence and pampering. Yes, I fear if you were here you would raise one of those fair arched brows of yours and remind me that I am not far behind her in that regard. Yet, for the first time, Millie, I thank God—and you—for what usefulness I might have. Little did I know while you sat patiently teaching me in that high, square room in the dear house on Walnut Street how to make patterns, how to cut, how to stitch, and I sat despising the tedium of it—little did I dream what need I would have of such precious skills! I have pieced and mended our few clothes several times already. Sister Shumway (the woman in whose house we are living) gave Mother a small end of cloth, and I contrived to make a new apron for Leah, which cheered her considerably. How little we have here, Millie! But no—I promised myself! How I do miss you! How I do miss Boston, and the clean breath of the sea, and the sounds of—well, you must know how I miss it. What need be said?
Several days after our arrival Mother and Leah were baptized in the shallows of the Grand River. They were part of a large group, and there was much singing and rejoicing. But I could not commit myself to such an immutable step as yet. Leah, unable to perceive my feelings, pronounced me foolish. But Mother did not press me, and I am most grateful for that. I read daily in the Book of Mormon and try to perform faithfully all duties that fall to my lot.
Millie sighed and paused in her reading. Such a dismal picture! Dare she go on to the end? She tried to imagine the scenes her friend was describing, tried to picture the girls in such a setting, but had difficulty doing so. How alien—how pointless such an existence seemed to her. With a tightness at her heart she turned back to the letter again.
I have seen the man who is responsible for all of this: Joseph Smith. They call him Joseph, the Prophet, or simply Brother Joseph. He is without doubt very pleasant to look upon—a tall, fair-haired man. His eyes are blue, and they pierce right through you, seeming to enter your heart, but not as with judgment, more like a light, like a pleasant warmth surging through your whole being. He has a kind manner and a noble bearing, and something beyond that which I cannot pin down, but which draws all people to him—men as well as women and children, enemies as well as tried-and-true friends. I have heard the stories of his marvelous influence. For myself, I cannot deny what I have felt and what I have seen with my own eyes.
I have no more room, and my hand is cramped from writing. Besides, I must put venison on the fire and potatoes to bake in the ashes. No seafood here, but we are beginning to harvest fresh vegetables, despite our lateness in planting. I bid you a fond, fond farewell, dearest Millie, and pray God to take care of you and comfort you in your loneliness.
Your loving friend,
Verity Thatcher
Millie let the letter fall into her lap and sat for long, silent moments contemplating what she had read, struggling with a range of emotions that exhausted her feelings. She realized, with a stab of dismay, that Verity’s letter, rather than warming her and drawing her closer to old affections and memories had made her feel even more isolated than before. How could that be? She placed the sheets back in their envelope and tucked it carefully inside her silk-lined handkerchief pocket, which smelled pleasantly of lavender. A letter from Verity. The first letter. The first of many, she prayed.
* * *
Just the sight of him made her feel anxious, almost angry. He sat on the waterfront, dangling his feet like a boy, listening to the old men tell tales. She was jealous; she knew that in an instant. How had he worked his way into their confidence when they still shunned her, their eyes cautious whenever she approached, their mouths set thin and tight below their weather-lined cheeks. Watching him, she could endure it no longer. She marched up until she stood directly behind him.
“Elder Todd,” she said, keeping her voice firm and even, “may I please have a word with you?”
He was on his feet instantly. She could feel his amusement at her use of the Mormon title for him. Could he feel her anger as well?
She turned and walked off from the group of now-silent men, who hid their curiosity as they did all other emotions. Nicholas was forced to follow, and he did so graciously, walking a little behind her and whistling under his breath.
Only when they were quite removed from the men and all other possible listeners did Millie turn on him, her skirts swishing around her ankles. “Did you come here from Missouri?” she demanded. “Tell me about it. I wish to know all you can tell me.”
His forehead furrowed into lines of concern, pinching his face in and making his nose seem larger. Millie moved to a cluster of large rocks jutting out of the land a little above the shoreline. She leaned against one that was smooth and green in places with lichen, and waited. He kept his distance and took his time in responding.
“My family was converted not far from here, in upstate Vermont. One of my father’s older brothers, as it happened, knew the Prophet’s grandfather, Asael Smith, knew him when he was an elderly gentleman.”
Millie was impatient, but he did not appear to see that. He plodded solemnly on. “My mother had lost, as it were, an entire family—her first three daughters to cholera. She liked the Mormon belief in the continuation of family units after this life, and of our eternal natures and possibilities.”
The Heart that Truly Loves Page 6