The Heart that Truly Loves

by Susan Evans McCloud

  Some say that ever ’gainst that season comes

  Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated,

  The bird of dawning singeth all night long;

  And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad,

  The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike,

  No fairy takes nor witch hath power to charm,

  So hallow’d and so gracious is the time.

  Millie read the words from Shakespeare’s Hamlet aloud. Three years ago she had not known such beauty of language existed. Six weeks ago she had not known that life could be so hallowed and gracious as this day was. Her little sea woman sat by the fire drying her long, corn silk hair, the soft shadows playing along her white skin. Millie began to hum the words of her favorite carol, “Silent Night.” Before she knew it she was snuggled on the long settle with Adria wrapped up in her arms, singing every Christmas song she could draw from her memory from long, long ago when her world was a child’s world, made up of sea and sunlight and warm, moist sand, and dreams were as real as tomorrow’s sunrise, and all things were possible because she believed. What had happened to that child? At this moment, with her own child soft at her side, she could believe again, if only a little. She could hope without fear. She could open her heart to tomorrow, whatever may come.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The blustery month of March stirred up the land with an almost wicked glee after a mild, quiet February. Millie had been taking little Adria to school with her and she had become quite a favorite there, especially with the older girls, who enjoyed fussing over her, and the boys, who, with unexpected solicitation, protected her from every danger and saw to her every need. The child remained gentle and unassuming and never appeared to consider taking advantage of the kindnesses shown her. She answered to her name quickly and seemed to accept it. She still had not spoken, much to Millie’s sorrow, and at times her silence became a weight. Millie longed for the spark of active communication the sound of the child’s voice would bring. More than that, she longed to know what thoughts and feelings flitted across her young soul. She seemed to understand everything. If speech were restored to her, what might she reveal of the knowledge and experience she had gleaned these past months?

  For Millie time had never gone by so quickly, or so enjoyably. Every day held new discoveries, seen through the eyes of this child: the coming of spring, with the arrival of the swallows, sand martins and finches, their voices shimmering through the warm May haze; the planting of sweet peas, poppies, forget-me-nots, and tender tea roses. Walks by the sea meant filling baskets and pails with sea stones and shells and bright bits of coral. The days warmed and lengthened, the sea stretched herself out like a sleek, lazy cat, and Millie found herself almost wishing that Luther would be late in coming, so as not to spoil the gentle perfection of these days she shared with her pale little will-o’-the-wisp by the sea.

  * * *

  21 June 1842

  Dearest Millie,

  So much has happened these past months that I do not know where to begin. We prosper, and thank heaven for it. I talk like a Mormon and have almost forgotten to wonder what effect it may have on you. I do wonder what you will think when I attempt to recount the experiences I have been having. Yet you are the first I think of, dear heart, to share my most sacred feelings with.

  The brethren have begun conducting proxy baptisms for the dead in the temple—the living standing in for their ancestors who in life had no chance to hear the truth and accept the gospel. Hundreds are availing themselves of the opportunity. Sister Rockwell (whose son Porter is the Prophet’s boyhood friend) has set a record, with forty-five baptisms for her own forebears. Mother must be a close second! She has organized all the records on the Boyles and Flynns and O’Brians and herds us all into the temple to do our part. I felt a bit squeamish about it at first, I must tell you. After all, who are we to say they want us doing this work for them, though I know the principle is that they are free to refuse if they like, but cannot progress without proper ordinances.

  One afternoon in the temple I was sitting off alone by myself on a bench in the corner. I closed my eyes and began to think about what it was we were doing here and just where it might lead. Suddenly I was aware of the sound of sweet music sounding faint in my ears. Then my father’s figure appeared before me—Oh, Millie, I know you can imagine what this would mean to me! Without thinking, I opened my eyes. He was still there. He lifted his head and turned slowly until his eyes met mine. The expression of his gaze pierced me like a shaft of pure light. I felt like singing out loud and at the same time weeping for joy. He smiled, and without moving or seeming to utter a word he spoke to me, Millie! I heard the rich tenor of his voice, vibrating with such tender affection that I did start to weep. Do my work, daughter, he said, that we all may be united one day. My mind sent the question out to him, Then you approve of this gospel and of what we have done? His smile deepened; he seemed to nod his head gently in affirmation. Then his image seemed to fade away from before my gaze. But oh, the blessing he left! The sense of unity and peace that thrilled through my soul!

  When we left the temple I could tell that Mother was watching me, though she said not a word. Later that evening, when she knew the children would be sleeping, she came to my house. “What did you see in the temple today?” she asked bluntly; you know Mother’s ways. When I hesitated she said, almost matter-of-factly, “You saw your father, didn’t you? My Anthony appeared to you.”

  For a moment I wondered if she would be angry with me. I had not sought the vision. I told her what he had said to me, and her wide, intelligent eyes filled with tears.

  “It is as it should be,” she said, with that rare tenderness in her voice that cuts to my heart. “If it had been me, none of you would have believed it. He had to choose you; all the more so because of the promise you made him.”

  She saw my eyes fill with amazement, and she chuckled softly—you know, the way she does under her breath. “Oh, I knew he was worried about how I would behave once he was gone, Verity. I knew when he called you in to him that he meant to lay the burden of my well-being on you.”

  “And you took advantage of it!” I replied, momentarily angry. “You knew you could get me to follow you here because of that promise and because of the love I bore Father!”

  She admitted it freely. “Yes, I knew. I also knew your heart and the fine tenor of your mind, dear heart. If once you gave the principles of this religion a chance, I knew you would embrace it.”

  I dislike how right she always is, even when it works to my advantage. You may be asking, as you once did, “Do you really want this, knowing how she manipulated you? Is this your own free choice, even now?” Dearest Millie, if I could somehow make you feel the beauty and dignity of this religion! The testimony of truth is a fire that must burn in one’s breast. If you felt it as I have, then you would know why I do not doubt.

  Millie did not want to hear this. She had been feeling truly happy for perhaps the first time. She did not want thoughts of Nicholas to mar that happiness. She skipped a little ahead to where Verity wrote:

  I hesitate to tell you, but must. Both Leah and I are expecting again. Just barely. I would say both children should come by late February or early March. I never fancied myself the motherly type, yet here I am, Millie, with a baby a year. I shall have to find some way to slow this thing down or I will have no energy left with which to care for those I already have. It is lovely to think of Leah and me having little ones so close together. I only pray all goes well, as I pray for you and the beautiful gift God has given you.

  Your friend and loving sister in spirit,

  Verity

  Perhaps I can relax now that I have Adria to care for, Millie mused. Perhaps now my own child will come. But lately it didn’t seem to matter as much as it used to. She had a child she could love, a child she could care for with all the tenderness and compassion of her woman’s hea
rt.

  A checkered pattern was beginning to emerge that perhaps some were not aware of. But Nicholas perceived it with a sense of unease. During the first part of the year Joseph Smith printed installments of his translation of the book of Abraham in the Times and Seasons. It excited much attention in the East. The Boston Daily Ledger called the Prophet “the greatest original of the present age.” The Church was earning respect in the world at large. But closer to home the stirrings of their old enemies were beginning to make themselves felt. Just as the Saints had begun to believe that all was truly peace and prosperity, Joseph Smith was arrested in connection with the attempted murder of Governor Boggs. And intelligent, charismatic John C. Bennett, mayor of Nauvoo through the Prophet’s good graces, twisted the truths Joseph had taught him and, with all the power of his nature, turned against the Church with vehemence. There was unrest from enemies both without and within, and the Prophet was in hiding because justice would never be a luxury he could claim. Nicholas felt the Saints were taking one step backward for each step forward, just as in Missouri and the last days of Kirtland. It frightened him.

  In August, when Joseph was illegally arrested, Nicholas became part of a network of brethren who were organized to scout for trouble and, if necessary, even at a moment’s notice, to protect the Prophet from his enemies. Nicholas would never forget these days—feeling the comradeship of the men but the tension as well, knowing as each did that he may well be called upon to give his own life for the safety of the Prophet and for the sake of the work. The finality of the commitment was a cleansing of a sort for Nicholas. All that was insignificant in his life fell away and he was able to perceive the pure essence of what was essential, what was necessary, even noble in his life. The insight altered him. Each time he returned from a tense night of riding, waiting, and watching, his eyes and ears straining to detect the least motion or sound, Nicholas felt he had become more sober about life, yet at the same time more appreciative, as though all his senses had been fine-tuned. When he had Helena in his arms and smelled the fragrance of her hair against his cheek he was overcome with the beauties and blessings that were his.

  In August his sister, Lizbeth, married her sweetheart, Frederick Rich. It was a good match; the two families had already proven to be compatible in most every way. He wondered if Lizbeth might end up producing the first grandchild for his mother. It had been nearly nine months since he and Helena were married, and there was no sign of a child as yet. Save for his mother, he was of himself in no hurry. Once children came they were always with you. He was enjoying the days alone with Helena—the quiet tranquility of them, the exclusive pleasure of having to answer to no one but each other.

  September was often as hot in Illinois as was August. The first sign of autumn was the corn drying on its stalks in the fields and the dead insects drying in the boggy marshes of the low river lands. Working outside on the temple in such weather was pleasant for Nicholas, who was usually cooped up indoors. The sun was warm on his neck and the back of his head as he bent over his work; he could feel it prickle his skin underneath his thin cotton shirt.

  Reaching into the barrel for a handful of wooden nails, he noticed a man walking toward him—a squat little man bristling with red hair and good humor. Nicholas froze, not believing his eyes.

  “Gerry Hines!” He shouted the words so loudly that half a dozen heads raised to look at him. The little Englishman paused and scratched his craggy cheek with a stubby finger.

  “Me lad!” he suddenly cried, recognition flooding his eyes. “Fancy meeting the likes of you here. I thought you were done for, I did, when they sent you home looking more like a corpse than a living man.”

  Nicholas laughed out loud in his pleasure. “Heaven knows how anyone lives in your miserable English climate, Gerry, but here I am.”

  “Aye, and here I am!” Gerry beamed, sticking out his round barrel chest and rubbing his hands up and down his shirt front. “Took me awhile, lad, but here I am.”

  There was little work done for the next half hour as the two talked over the happenings of the past years. Nicholas was tickled to learn that Gerry had taken a wife. “A gentle English lady,” he boasted. “I’ve settled down right and proper, if you can believe that.”

  So his work had borne more fruit than he had expected, Nicholas mused. How hasty we are to make our own conclusions and counsel the Lord. How unpromising my first convert, the drunken owner of a grog shop, had seemed.

  “It’s been these twelve month and more since I’ve tasted liquor,” Gerry assured Nicholas. “Eat my wife’s good cooking instead.” He patted his ample belly as if in confirmation. Nicholas smiled, remembering the substantial girth of it back in England, thanks to stout and cheap ale.

  Nicholas worked the remainder of his shift in a glow of pleasure, anticipating what joy it would be to tell Helena of his chance discovery when he returned home that night. But, walking through the city as the sunset burned the sky with flames of orange and yellow and masses of smoldering red, he thought of the sunsets over the ocean in Liverpool—and in Gloucester—and of the girl with hair like sunlight who had walked by his side.

  * * *

  Luther stared at Adria too long and too hard. The child trembled beneath his gaze.

  “She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she?” Millie urged.

  “Send her out to play, Millicent. I want to talk to you.”

  Adria had skipped past them and was out the door even as Luther spoke.

  “I don’t know, Millie.” Luther scratched his tanned forehead. “I don’t know if I can live in the same house with somebody else’s child. She watches us, Millie . . . I don’t know what she’s thinking or where she’s been. I thought it would be just the two of us, you know, alone, when I came home. You can see that.”

  Millie let him wear out all his feeble excuses. “Adria was sent to me.” She spoke the words slowly and firmly. “She is my child. If there are others, I shall be as happy as you will be, Luther, but do not think you can harm this child because of your own pride and selfishness.”

  He blinked back at her, bull-angry and uncomprehending. His eyes were growing dark, taking on the brooding look she so hated to see.

  “She belongs here,” said Millie. “She feels safe and loved. I won’t have you spoil that.”

  His silence was exactly the answer she was dreading.

  “She’ll do you no harm.” She made her voice come out gentle. “She’s been a blessing so far. Let her be, Luther. Give her the bit of space she requires.”

  It was little enough she was asking him, and he knew it. He growled low under his breath to show his displeasure and to cover what they both knew: that in the end he would acquiesce. But that was not what Millie wanted—what in the long dark stretches of the night she had dared to desire. She wanted Luther to embrace the child. She wanted to see Adria draw tenderness from him, to unite the three of them into something they had not been before. She could if Luther would let her. But Millie shouldn’t have hoped. She should have known better. She should have planned for the reality, not the dream.

  A few minutes later Luther marched down the rock path, heading back to town to have some of his nets fixed and to check on the condition of his Chebacco boat, which his partners had been plying these last months without him. Millie watched him with tears in her eyes. He had come home nearly as restless as he had been when he left her, and Adria’s presence had not helped any. The summer was nearly worn out. There was school to look forward to, and the last push of harvesting, drying, and preserving before winter set in. The endless round of season following season was much more meaningful now that she had Adria to share it with. But what of this man? What of the harmony between husband and wife? The depth of her loneliness could not be cured by a child’s love; well she knew that.

  She dried her wet eyes on the sleeve of her frock and turned to go back in the house. Seemingly out of nowhere Adri
a glided across the garden and threw herself at Millie, wrapping her arms around her legs and nearly upsetting her balance. “Mother!” she cried, hiding her face against Millie’s apron.

  The word seemed to hang in the air. Millie placed her hand on the girl’s head. “Adria? Dear, it’s all right.”

  The child had never seen Millie cry. She lifted a tear-stained face and repeated the exclamation. Millie gently disentangled herself and knelt down by the child, drawing her into her arms, where she burrowed her face against Millie’s shoulder.

  “It’s all right, dear heart,” she crooned. “I am your mother, and I love you and will take care of you always. Don’t be afraid.”

  For a long time they knelt on the stone path together, rocking gently back and forth in each other’s arms, Adria saying, “Mother, Mother,” over and over again.

  That was the beginning. Once Adria’s voice came back to her she used it almost incessantly, except when Luther was in the house. Then, like a small, timid bird, she would retreat under the protection of Millie’s wide apron, or find some book and disappear into a corner. If the weather was mild, like as not she would go out by the sea and play on the long, sandy shore. Millie often found her there when she was not playing in the garden or beneath the shady trees on the hill slope with her toys and her dolls. She was a solitary child, and the sea seemed to draw her, harboring no nightmares and terrors of the dread night she had spent there. That all seemed wiped away, or never to have existed at all.