The Heart that Truly Loves

by Susan Evans McCloud

  Nicholas was one of the first to leave. Some would linger, he knew, until talk was stirred up again and they could tear the dread news to pieces, but he couldn’t bear that. He walked home through the frosty January morning, too stunned to think. Whatever course Brother Brigham advised from here on, this was the end, and everyone knew it. Would they really go west, as Joseph had prophesied? He couldn’t imagine it; his mind simply went blank when he tried. He entered his house and tried to form a smile as Helena approached him, her whole face a question. He shook his head.

  “The worst,” he said. “They have stripped us of our charter—they have stripped us of any future we might have had here.”

  March 11, 1845

  Dearest Millie,

  Yes, I am still alive and surviving. Here horror follows horror, and we are not granted the luxury to sit down and grieve. In January as the new year began, life in Nauvoo as we know it came to an end. The legislators in Springfield repealed the city’s charter, which leaves us at the mercy of our enemies, as well they all know. I believe we will be forced to go west, as Joseph intimated. I dread the prospect. I dread everything lately, it seems, and without Giles and his patience I could not go on. I pray someday I may repay him and give him strength in his weakness, as he has given so freely to me. This is the sanctification of the union between man and woman—to go down into the vales of death and suffering together and bear each other up. I look back at the tender, untried love of our youth and courtship and treasure those days. But this, this oneness of service and sympathy, has been dearly bought and shall be dearly kept.

  Maggie, Simon’s second wife, has given birth to a son. He has the distinction of being one of the first infants to be blessed and receive his name in the new City of Joseph, for so we have renamed our city, almost by common consent. Mother is as devoted to the child as Maggie is; it is really lovely to see. By the time you receive this, I myself will be five months with child. I fear I do not rejoice in this state as I did in the past. I am somewhat numb still from the loss of Katy, and when not numb, afraid. And fear is the worst enemy of peace and productivity—that I know.

  Enjoy your peace, precious Millie, and live your life fully—for all our sakes.

  Love,

  Verity

  Millie thought of Verity’s words. They sunk deep down into her heart and sat there like little hot stones. The following morning when she rang the big iron bell to call the children into the classroom, she looked at them carefully as each went by. She knew them well by now, knew which were orphans to the sea, which were children of farming or merchant parents, which had fathers who liked drink too well, which had slovenly mothers, which had mothers who beat them—the list could go on and on. But as she looked into their strong, eager faces she thought, Not one of these has problems that he or she cannot surmount. And thinking so, Millie realized that the brightest and best were those who had struggled the hardest, who had fought for one small victory following another, asking no special favors but taking life as it came. So God had designed it. Perhaps in wisdom; she wasn’t sure. But she was prepared to consider the idea seriously for the first time.

  When Joseph died at the end of June, 1844, the temple walls were but one story high. By the following May the capstone was laid, and Brigham Young, addressing the assembled Saints, said, “I pray the Almighty in the name of Jesus to defend us in this place and sustain us until the temple is finished and we have all got our endowments.”

  Nicholas said amen to that in his heart. He had given as much of his time and labor to the building of the temple as any man in Nauvoo. Helena was with child again, and he was glad that the date for their endowments had at last been set. When this child was born it would be under the covenant, to parents who were united to one another beyond death, through all the eternities to come. When this child was born, God willing, they would still have a house to bring it home to.

  Dearest Millie,

  I have given birth to my firstborn son, and all is well. He is as beautiful as any of his sisters were, and a wonder to me. We have named him Anthony Giles, after his father and mine; fitting names for so sweet a spirit. I bless the Lord for his goodness to me, and wonder, looking into Anthony’s eyes, if he did not see and converse with his sister before coming here—if he does not bring us her love and her greeting, though he is unable to express them except through the love and peace of his gaze.

  It is now October, the time of gathering in the harvest and expressing gratitude for our bounty. But our bounty increases, and we gather a richer, longer-lasting harvest: the harvest of souls. Converts keep pouring into the city, large numbers from Wales—dark, quiet Welsh miners who sing with the voices of angels. Over five thousand Saints attended the conference held in the temple. Brigham told us, “We want to take you to a land where a white man’s foot never trod, nor the lion’s whelps, nor the devil’s!” and he had the Saints covenant as a body that we will take all the poor with us to the extent of our abilities and means. Then, in his characteristic way, he promised, “If you will be faithful to your covenant, I will prophesy that the great God will shower down means upon this people to accomplish it to the very letter.”

  What manner of people are these? Millie wondered, reading the letter. Do they glory in trial and persecution? They certainly don’t shrink. For the first time in a long while she thought of Nicholas Todd and the things he had said—about faith, and knowing for oneself—high, idealistic things. But Verity and the others had been living those ideals as realities these many years. Had Nicholas Todd? Was he buried in Liverpool, or did he return to Nauvoo? Was he a polygamist with two or three wives? For some reason she could not picture that. Her mind was blank when she thought of him; he was like something she had dreamed, no kind of reality at all.

  Every available building in the city has been converted into a wagon or harness shop. You can imagine how busy Edgar has become! Daily they prepare more and more timber for the wagons and scour the country for iron. They say it won’t be long until every blacksmith, wheelwright, and carpenter will be busy literally day and night. Brother Brigham wants the bulk of the Saints out of the city by April—how can that be? Giles says we must sell the store and its inventory early while we can still get some kind of price for it; otherwise we will be forced to give it away. With Mother as his agent I think we will fare better than most! But this is not the real reason I am writing.

  I wanted to tell you about our endowments in the temple. For you see, Millie, through the authority the Prophet was given and the ordinances the Lord revealed to him, we are able to be sealed, husband and wife, past the separation of death as an eternal family, with our children sealed to us as well. Does that not feel right? Think upon it. To me it answers some deep inner need and speaks peace to my spirit.

  As Giles and I and Leah and Edgar prepared to receive our endowments, Mother grew unusually quiet and withdrawn. When word came that a time had also been appointed for herself and Simon, her face bleached of all color, she set that wide, powerful mouth of hers, and went off all alone. When she returned she requested a private interview with her husband and told him bluntly, “I wish to be sealed to Anthony. I have given it much thought and prayer. He is the husband of my youth; I could never love you or any man the way I love him.” (’Tis Simon himself who told me this story, bless his heart, with tears in his eyes.) “You have Maggie now, and a fine son, and the promise of more family, which I cannot give you. Please understand and release me to be sealed to Anthony. He may not want me, after all, and then I shall have to take my chances—”

  She could not go on. He caught her hands up and kissed her cheek, hardly able to talk for the tears in his throat. “No man could ever wish for a better wife, Judith, than you have been to me. If you are yet willing, we shall live together and help one another throughout the rest of this life. But I would love you less than you deserve if I did not grant you my blessing to be sealed to the man who, I am certain, cherishes you still.”<
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  So, dearest Millie, is that not the most bittersweet of stories? What a good, noble man we have found in Simon Gardner—despite our spiteful, indignant hatred of him back on Walnut Street.

  It was painful for Millie to look back, because, in some ways, all the years between ceased to exist. Life had been too easy and too sweet then to have lasted; she should have known that. But that time was a treasure, a bright pearl on the string of life’s experiences that could never be taken from her.

  A few weeks after Verity’s last letter arrived Millie was glancing through the Boston Globe; Mr. Erwin always kept a current copy on his desk. She was halfheartedly looking through the advertisement section for seeds and bedding plants when something caught her eye.

  LDS Meetings held every Sabbath in Boylston Hall, corner of Washington and Boylston Streets, ten o’clock in the morning. Visitors welcome.

  Just a small advertisement stuck ignobly in with columns and columns of others, but Millie was impressed. She had not realized there were Mormons in Boston still, though that only made sense. Not every single one would have gone to Nauvoo. She remembered a Mr. Tewksbury who had attended some of the meetings Judith held at the house. He had a prominent business on Commercial Street. Chances were that he had remained. She wondered about Jonathan Hammond; could he be in Boston still? He would remember her. How singular to think of the terrible chaos and falling apart of Nauvoo, yet missionaries were still sent out, and people still joined with the Mormons, forming small, faithful congregations. It seemed most strange to her.

  Well in advance of Christmas Millie helped Adria compose an invitation, with a pretty picture drawn upon it—Adria’s handiwork alone. Together they took it to Almira at the post office. In substance it read: “Millicent and Adria Fenn request the pleasure of your company (Amos and Matthew included) at a Christmas Day dinner held at the Cooper Cottage promptly at two in the afternoon. Please come! There will be good food and presents for all!” The last line was Adria’s idea, and she insisted on keeping it in.

  Millie hardly dared to think what Almira’s reaction would be. But two days later Amos hand-delivered her reply: “Pleased to accept your kind invitation. Will be there at two. Will bring rolls and my cranberry pie.”

  Almira was known all along the coast for her cranberry pie. And while Millie liked baking bread, Almira knew she had no patience for small, fancy-shaped rolls. It was only natural that she would insist on contributing; most women would. So it was quite a kindly reply, all things considered.

  As the great day approached Millie stewed and fussed enough that Adria noticed, and in her own way tried to reassure her. “If she doesn’t like what you cook, it’s all right, Mother. You still have me.”

  After that, it was all right. Millie remembered her blessings and realized, with an intuition she should not have lost sight of, that Almira would be feeling nervous and fidgety, too.

  When she heard the boys scrambling up the stone path, spraying snow in every direction, she threw the door open wide. Amos grinned at her; he was still a good lad. When Almira came close Millie ducked in quickly and planted a kiss on her cheek, then pulled her in and helped her remove her scarf and her cape, and her audacity was covered by the confusion of the moment.

  The duck was roasted to perfection, the potatoes were fluffy, the pudding moist and tender. In essence, the meal succeeded, and the young ones kept the conversation going. And somehow, after the exchange of small gifts, they were still there, drinking tea and munching on shortbread and singing the old folk songs and carols that celebrate the birth of the Savior of men.

  When Almira was ready to leave and had her hand on the doorknob, she suddenly turned. “It was a Christian thing you did, inviting us, Millie, and I thank you, I thank you kindly. We all had a wonderful time.”

  The boys chimed in with enthusiasm, and Amos, with a wink, threw his arms round Millie’s neck.

  “I’m lonely, too,” Millie said softly, “and I have been selfish these past years. Let all that be in the past, Almira. I should like it if this marks a different future for you and me.”

  When they had gone she gathered Adria into her arms and held her tight against her. The tears in her eyes were for her own foolishness, not for Almira’s stiff pride. And when she knelt by her bed that Christmas night to pray, it was Verity’s wide, lovely eyes that smiled at her out of the darkness. ’Twas you who gave me courage to do it, she whispered, as though Verity could see her, as though Verity could hear.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Nicholas’s wish, at least, had been granted. When his daughter was born they were still living in their own house, made all the sweeter by her presence. The following month he entered into negotiations to sell all his property and put what little cash he received into food and supplies for the trip west.

  Frederick and his father had sold the shoemaking shop, as well as their own homes, and with the proceeds purchased wagons and oxen. The smell of new wood was everywhere in the air. By Thanksgiving some fifteen hundred wagons had been completed by Nauvoo’s artisans, and it was calculated that nearly two thousand more were under construction. The Church was buying cattle and mules anywhere they could find them. The Bill of Particulars, specifying the requirements for the journey for a family of five, listed animals, tools, seeds, clothing, and bedding to 500 pounds, with 20 pounds of soap, 1,000 pounds of flour or other breadstuffs, and salt, spices, beans, and dried foods. Nicholas promised Helena he would make room for his mother’s old rocker. But there would be so many other things, precious and hard-earned, that they would be leaving behind.

  Heber Kimball, addressing the Saints, had said: “I am glad the time of our exodus is come; I have looked for it for years. . . . There may be individuals who will look at their pretty houses and gardens and say, ‘It is hard to leave them’; but I tell you, when we start, you will put on your knapsacks and follow after us.” He and his wife Vilate had just completed their own very lovely house less than five months ago.

  Perhaps a little of that feeling was beginning to come to Nicholas. As he walked through the city the streets looked sad and already seemed to wear a deserted air.

  It was the spirit of the Saints that gave life to this place, he thought. And their eyes are already turned elsewhere. Perhaps a part of our hearts will always remain in this city, to hallow this ground. But wherever the Saints dwell, there will be progress, and there will be joy.

  He went home, bent over the cradle of his new daughter, Emma May, and kissed her soft, fragrant cheek. Abel ran to him, and Nicholas lifted him onto his shoulders. “Come with me to the blacksmith’s lad, and we’ll check on the progress of our wagon.”

  Helena walked into the room. She had grown thin after the birth of this baby, and her ivory skin stretched tight and pale over her high cheekbones.

  “Be careful with him, Nicholas,” she said, smiling at her son’s excitement.

  “Never fear, my dear,” he assured her. Then, coming closer, he smoothed back her brown hair and rested his hand on her cheek. “Things will be all right, Helena. For the first time I feel it.”

  “I’m glad,” she responded, relaxing at his touch, and he knew she was thinking that if he could let go, if he could go forward with confidence, they would all be all right.

  He walked out into the brisk morning with his son riding his shoulders, and the slim, lovely temple standing silver against the pale winter sky. He had put so much of himself into the building of that temple.

  “We must leave it in God’s hands,” he said out loud. Surely the spirit of Joseph would ever rest over this place, and God would sanctify the efforts and faith of the people who must leave it behind.

  February marked another birthday for Adria. Could she really be eight years old? Outside the sea stretched like gray, rippled steel beneath an ash-colored sky, and the wind rattled the brittle vines against the sides of the house. Inside, as the short day waned, the fire bur
ned bright and the lamps shed rosy fingers of light into the cozy room. Drawing the curtains against the night, Millie shuddered, thinking of Verity and the others and what they might be facing right now. She tried to comprehend it, but could not. It seemed at times like a horrible fairy tale, the horrors that Verity wrote. And she was so helpless here to do anything for them! Verity always wrote: “Pray.” But Millie knew she wasn’t very good at praying, at pouring her heart’s feelings into a void that seemed unfathomable to her mind.

  The wind picked up; she could hear the high whine of it under the eaves. She turned and called Adria to her, longing suddenly for the sound of another voice, the warm touch of a loved one’s hand.

  4 March 1846, City of Joseph

  Dear Millie,

  One month ago today, on the fourth of February, the first wave of Saints left the city. Brigham warned us that we must have all in readiness, for if we waited many more days our enemies would hedge up the way. A temporary camp has been established at Sugar Creek in Iowa, just over the bluffs we are accustomed to looking at from our side of the river. Brigham himself left the fifteenth of February. The river was frozen over for a time—something we have never before seen here—and so some of the wagons did not need to be ferried over, but worked their own way, like a long white snake, along the gray stretch of ice.