The Heart that Truly Loves

by Susan Evans McCloud

  More than any other time, it is said, spirits haunt the year’s last dying hours, sobbing and sighing along the scratchy black branches, the bare, empty beach. The air is hushed where they pass, and anyone who encounters them will feel the chill of their presence, and the whole soul will grieve.

  In the dank days of December Millie felt the presence of such spirits as she walked the wet beach. They seemed to rise on the misty spray of the water, and she almost fancied she could feel their breath brush over her skin. Who were these presences? Her father? Old Daniel? What did they desire of her? This year, now dwindling to a close, had seen her relinquish her girlhood for the status of wife. Was she the same person, walking this stretch of shoreline, that she always had been? In what ways had she taken into herself characteristics of Luther’s, mingling them with her own? If only she could walk here knowing that new life, an extension of her own soul, her own being, moved within her. She felt less than a complete, worthy woman because she could not produce a child. This, above all else, would lend her true merit in Luther’s eyes. It was not fair, it was not just, and yet it was so.

  She walked for a long time, hugging her arms to her body, drawing the taste of salt and cold down into her lungs and feeling her soul spin out of her body on the long, haunting note of the curlew’s call. She felt as thin and insubstantial as the mist that rolled up from the sea, bound only by her mortal longings to this frail spot of earth. Perhaps these spirits that whispered wordlessly to her meant only to comfort her sorrow and lend her some strength as she bent before the sweep of the sea wind and the strong forces of life.

  At the end of an afternoon of shopping Millie stopped in at Almira’s post office to see if there were any letters for Luther or herself. Almira regarded her through close, squinted eyes. Just four days earlier she had disposed of two letters from Millie’s stranger, one addressed to her and one to old Daniel. She had chuckled at that. “Dead men tell no tales,” so the saying goes. She had been vexed at the time. But Millie, slender in a dark green coat, her face flushed from the cold, with tendrils of golden hair curling round her cheeks, looked uncommonly pretty and somehow vulnerable, even to Almira’s begrudging gaze. The sense of discomfort that came over her was not quite guilt or remorse, but close enough for Almira to seek someone to blame. It was Millie who had caused deceit in Almira and trouble for all of them. So thinking, Almira asked sharply, “When are you going to have good news for us, Millie?”

  She peered at her daughter-in-law closely and noticed the girl’s cheeks pale.

  “Luther’s been patient, he has, ’specially when his cousin over in Beverly, married less time than yourselves, has been these three months with child. And for that matter—”

  “Have you letters for us, or haven’t you?” Millie cut her off with a look that stopped even Almira’s tongue. She handed Millie an advertisement from a shipping firm in Boston and a letter from Verity. As soon as her hand closed upon them Millie turned and was gone. She would never let Almira see tears in her eyes, never; she would choke on them first. But all the way home her sight was blurred by them, senseless and futile as they were.

  Nauvoo, November, 1840

  Dearest Millie,

  I am writing this in hopes that it will reach you by Christmas. At last I have been blessed with the birth of my child. She was later by nearly three weeks than the doctor had predicted. How long that time seemed! I was so uncomfortable and, I must admit, fearful that all was not well. But she is here, and she is perfect. We have named her Katherine Rose. Her hair is a cloud of auburn fluff, and so far her eyes are blue. She has a lovely chin and a full, strong mouth like my mother’s. But thus far her behavior indicates a much milder temperament; perhaps her “touchy Irish blood” is sufficiently diluted! Oh, Millie, I wish you could see her, I do! No one could have told me what joy motherhood is; one has to experience it to realize how it opens up the heart and unlocks the music of the universe for your ears to hear.

  A trembling, starting from deep inside, shuddered through Millie’s frame. She skipped the remaining passages telling about little Katherine and picked up where Verity began:

  Leah is expecting again, so we are all careful of her. It is not as though she pampers herself; I fear I often give a wrong impression of Leah. She helps where she can. In fact, she has become a fine cook and delights in baking treats for the poor families whom Mother fusses over. Just yesterday I left Katherine with Mother for a spell and, arriving back earlier than I had expected, found Leah rocking her by the fire, looking as pale and sweet as a young angel with her offspring. It tore at my heart. The most difficult thing is that she yet remains aloof, as though gazing at life from a distance, shrouded and protected, not really a part of it.

  Poor Leah. For the first time Millie’s sympathies truly went out to her. What wretched creatures we are, she conceded to her own conscience, that only through our own suffering can we develop tenderness for others. Where the mind has not been, the heart cannot follow. But why must it be so?

  Well, enough of gloom. This is a happy season and, thanks to Mother’s enthusiasm as a businesswoman, a profitable one for all here!

  Blessings on you, dear Millie. May the Lord’s peace surround you and may you know of his love for you—that is my prayer for you at this blessed time.

  Your own fond friend,

  Verity Winters

  Millie’s first Christmas with Luther was less sweet than it could have been because of the cloud that hung over them. He was kind to her, even at some times attentive, but he could not hide the fact that, in this one essential way, he believed she had failed him as a wife.

  During the long winter evenings, reading by candlelight, Millie gave it much thought. Could Luther not look upon the two of them as a family until a child came? What intrinsic elements constituted a family anyway? He knew that she longed for a child as much as he did, yet she was unable to convey to him the sense of emptiness and unfulfillment that her barrenness brought. They were not united in their desires; each walked his or her own path. They might want the same thing, but for totally different reasons. Was that common with a man and a wife? Was she making mountains out of molehills? She did not know. She had no one to seek wisdom and advice from, and once again the ugly feeling of resentment against the Mormons rose up in her. It was they who were responsible for all the woes in her life, in Leah’s life, even in Verity’s. She found herself cursing the day she had ever heard of them, cursing the hour she had first looked up from her fragrant garden to see Nicholas’s face. If he had not existed in her life, if he did not still dwell in her heart, might she have been more content from the outset with Luther? Did much of the fault lie in her?

  With renewed energy and an attempt at real tenderness she tried harder: listened to Luther more carefully, praised him whenever she could, saw to his little needs in ways she knew would please him, and, hardest of all, opened her own heart and allowed him to gaze inside. For weeks she tried, sometimes hating the effort, chafing at her own confinements, sometimes mindless of anything but the sheer joy of giving and the inner peace that it brought. But with Luther himself she had to admit at last that she noticed no significant difference. He appreciated her, he was more amorous, less quarrelsome or moody. But her trembling heart, open and exposed, remained lonely, unapproached by whatever lay concealed within her husband, concealed by layers of habit and convention, indifference and fear.

  April came, wet and windy, beset by gales that should have blown themselves out with February’s passing. May was much the same. Millie felt always a little soggy and subdued. It was nearly impossible to work in the garden or to set about spring housecleaning. Even the children drooped, unable to stretch and run about and play at their sports.

  Luther stayed, working close by, though Millie sensed the restiveness in him. It had now been a year since the minister had pronounced them man and wife, in the same church and at the same altar where her mother and father had taken their vows. She had sp
ent a year living as a wife in the same house her mother had lived in. Had life been this hard for her—this heavy upon her heart?

  The silences told her nothing at all. The winds blew and the old walls creaked, but no voices whispered through them. And in the still, fire-lit house she felt no traces of her mother’s spirit, nothing to show her the way.

  The winter days lengthened into spring. Spring along the Mississippi was always a wet and muddy affair. But oh, it was green, and the smells of sweet grass and prairie flowers and the black loam were heady! At such times Nicholas wished he knew more about farming and could simply work the land and be out-of-doors in all kinds of weather instead of cooped up in the shop. The days softened, there was love and new life everywhere. But no word came for Nicholas. A sort of numbness set in to assist him. It was three years since he had met Millicent in her garden in Gloucester. He could look back on it now as some sort of dream. Now, for the first time, every memory of her was not tinged with pain, every thought not colored with an urgency that churned up his mind.

  At the beginning of the new year the Prophet had received a revelation commanding the Saints to build a temple. Later the basement was dug and walled, and on April sixth, the anniversary of the organization of the Church, the cornerstones were laid. Nicholas, as part of the Legion, marched to the bold height overlooking the river, where the new temple would stand. The military band played, and cannons boomed out boldly. The ladies of Nauvoo presented the Prophet and his officers with a United States flag woven of silk. Sidney Rigdon addressed the Saints; he was outspoken, almost flamboyant, and imbued them with a sense of the destiny of what they were doing this day. Nicholas felt it already, deep inside the quiet recesses of his heart. He was one of the first to volunteer as a worker on the edifice, willing to do anything the more skilled laborers asked him, aware as he was of how mediocre his own skills were. But what a privilege to work for the Lord and for the benefit of generations to come!

  Thus, there was plenty to occupy Nicholas’s time, and even his thoughts. He could feel the growth and progress that came from his efforts, yet it seemed to have nowhere to go. Some self-imposed boundary, tied to his feelings for Millie, prohibited his spirit from filling its true measure. He needed a wife, he knew it; but the realization left him cold and indifferent inside.

  Chapter Twenty

  Nauvoo, August, 1841

  Dearest Millie,

  On August second Leah gave birth to a fine, healthy son. They have named him Joshua Hyrum—Joshua for Edgar’s father and Hyrum in honor of the Prophet’s elder brother, who is Patriarch to the Church and the gentlest man God ever placed on this earth. So he is well named. And well loved, as you can imagine! Edgar is like a man in a dream; he holds Leah in awe, I believe, for having produced so perfect a being. I do believe Leah has been able to let go and accept this happiness, for the old gentleness plays about her mouth and there is a softness in her eyes that I have not seen since Missouri.

  I hope all is well with you, Millie. You do nicely at writing newsy little tidbits, and your descriptions of the scenery are so vivid that I can hear the thundering of the tide and feel the salt spray on my face. But you say little about you. And that is what I wish to know. That is what I miss. Can you entrust more to me, dear heart, the way we used to in Boston in that world long ago, which I still hold in my heart?

  My Katherine grows and changes daily. Her hair is a thick, tangled auburn, and her eyes remain blue. She enchants everyone. Even Mother can be coaxed away from her mercantile or philanthropic interests by Katy’s entreatings and forget all else in watching the joy with which she learns and discovers the world about her. I believe it is best that Leah gave birth to a son. A little girl might have stirred the old memories and brought back all the heartache, but Joshua Hyrum can carve his own place, fresh and new.

  I suppose I must tell you that I, too, am expecting a second time. This child will be born near the end of November, so Katherine will be a year old and walking and, hopefully, I can manage it! I find it difficult already to carry Katherine about for long spells, or to bend over to pick up after her or do work in the garden. And with time that will only grow worse. I hope I can find room in my heart for another child this soon. I am yet too enamored of my Katherine; she seems all I could ever possibly want.

  Simon and Edgar are building a new house for Leah and Edgar and their family; Mother and Simon will remain in the old cottage for a time yet. It is strange how Mother doesn’t seem to mind a bit. Perhaps because she is seldom home anyway. This spring there were a great many sick with the ague, and she went from house to house nursing and encouraging—and freely distributing Giles’s store goods. He is, in truth, more patient with her than I am; I believe he understands her in a way that I can’t.

  Giles is such a hard worker and his business prospers, so I am free to concentrate my efforts on being a mother and a homemaker. He never fails to enter our home without coming in search of me and giving me a gentle kiss and a kind word before he turns his attentions elsewhere. Even Katherine cannot charm him away from this pattern. I cherish the sweetness of his love for me.

  You may well ask how fares my mother’s marriage with Simon. It weathers her eccentricities and independence of spirit quite well. Simon farms a large number of acres and works weekly on the new temple and seems content to let Mother fly about on her own business. And he dearly enjoys listening of an evening to her recounting of the day’s adventures. He takes great pride in her work and in the vibrant sort of beauty she has managed to keep, despite her years. How evident is that pride when he walks out to meetings or parties with her on his arm! ’Tis an endearing sight, Millie, and I cannot be cold to him knowing how sincerely he loves her and seeing the indulgence that flows from his generous heart.

  I’ve no time for more, dear heart. I am to go berrying with some of the neighbors this afternoon, and Leah, who has been watching both of our children, informs me that Katherine has just fallen and bumped her head and is crying for me. She begs forgiveness for being the cause of shortening my letter to you and sends her love—wishing to know if you are still as beautiful as she remembers you three years ago!

  With love, your “less beautiful” and matronly friend,

  Verity Winters

  Despite the constant pain caused by her own inability to produce a child, Millie found she could rejoice, more and more as time passed, in the joys and successes of her dear friend. Perhaps I am growing up, she thought wryly. Perhaps age is producing some fortitude in me, at least.

  She was to need it. As September brought cool mornings and the first hint of yellow in the green trees that topped the hillsides, Luther came home one day from the fishing and announced that he had signed on for a voyage to Singapore.

  “How long will you be gone?” Millie asked, struggling to keep her voice even. It still bothered her that he made decisions without consulting her. They were two people who lived together, but they seldom functioned as one.

  “Before summer’s over. It’s a short trick, really. We need the money, Millie—” He glanced up from the fish he was cleaning. “Maybe we need the time away from each other, too.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You know, this thing about a baby, not having children, well, it’s worn on us both. A separation might lighten the pressure and make it easier when I come back.”

  Half a dozen different retorts came to Millie’s mind, but she only nodded and tightened her lips. She was learning that one skill which seemed requisite for a woman: to keep her mouth shut. But she had not figured out how to do so without also closing her heart, feeling a terrible tightening in her chest and the loneliness that followed.

  She did not go to the harbor when the town turned out en masse to bid Luther’s vessel godspeed. She could not bear the glances and whispers of the other women, of Almira in particular. Some may feel sorry for her, others disdain her, but they all knew she was unable to hold he
r husband because she could not produce the son he desired. They all knew she had failed.

  To her amazement Luther seemed to understand. He did not press her or begin an argument when she announced her intentions. When he was ready to leave he drew her close to him, his big hand cupping her chin and covering half of her face.

  “You’re still the prettiest woman in all of Gloucester,” he told her, his voice gruff with feeling. “I shall miss the sight of you, Millie.” He kissed her for a long time; she could feel his reluctance to draw away from her. He sighed as they parted, and in his eyes she could see, like a shadow, the quiet loneliness of sea days and sea nights.

  “I want to carry this lovely face with me,” he said, “so that when I close my eyes I can see you. When I look out and there is only gray wave following gray wave, your warm mouth will smile at me and I can feel the touch of your lips pressing mine.”

  With that he hefted his sea bag and walked from the house, never looking back at her; that was considered bad luck. But Millie watched after him until he had disappeared from her sight. Even then she stood at the door, her eyes burning with unshed tears, her mind pitifully echoing and re-echoing Luther’s last words.