“It’s a wonderful gift,” I said.
“Maybe that’s how I’ll sing after I die. That will be Heavenly Father’s reward for my life. I could die a happy death tonight if I knew I’d wake up tomorrow able to sing like Sister Coraline.”
“Well,” I said, hoping to build on what was seeming like a lighter mood, “maybe you’d better put an extra log on the fire tonight to make sure you don’t freeze to death. Wouldn’t want to get to heaven with a sore throat.”
“Easy for you to make jokes.” Her voice had never sounded more tortured. “You know what’s waiting for you. He’s waiting for you. If anybody should wish to die tonight, it’s you.”
Perhaps if she’d said such a thing in the middle of a sun-filled afternoon, my body might have been spared the painful chill that scraped along my spine. As it was, the glare of the lamplight cast her face in a yellowed glow, with her freckles creating tiny pockets of darkness across her countenance—like an aged woodcut brought to life. The air outside was perfectly still—not the least bit of a breeze—but the cold was cruel, and tendrils of it crept through the kitchen like icy weeds. She’d spoken in a tone as thin and flat as the ice that floated in the washbasin.
“Don’t say such things,” I said, hearing nothing but the echoes of the elder’s threats.
“He still loves you. You’re his wife; he’ll call to you.”
“My life is in God’s hands. It is he who will call me to heaven when my days here are over, whether it’s tonight or tomorrow or fifty years from now.”
“You really believe that?”
“I do, with all my heart. Jesus Christ is my Savior, and the Bible tells us that in Christ, we’re all the same. No single person can lord eternity over another. Nathan doesn’t hold my eternity in his hands. He is my husband, yes. And it might be that he’ll be my husband for the rest of my life. But when my life ends, so does our marriage.”
“But the prophet says—”
“Hang the prophet.”
I got up from my seat only to find Evangeline doing the same, and we stood, facing off.
“Watch how you speak of him.” There was a definite hiss behind her words.
“No, you listen to what I have to say. Don’t you see what the prophet has done? How he’s made you a slave to this teaching? He has you ready to feed off the scraps of some other woman’s marriage for the privilege of spending an eternity with a man who didn’t love you enough on earth.”
“I tell you, Nathan could love me.”
“Not enough! He couldn’t love me enough to devote himself to me. He doesn’t love Amanda enough to stay away from the woman who left him. And he doesn’t love you enough to . . . to even look at you.”
She raised her hand to slap my face, but I caught it, my fingers easily encircling her wrist, and I hauled her to her toes.
“Hear this,” I said, my heart and words full of a strange, raging compassion. “Nathan Fox would marry you tomorrow if he thought it would bring me back to him. But I care about you too much to invite you into that kind of hell on earth. But if you wait around long enough, he just might marry you to gain Brigham Young’s approval. Then you can spend your life following the whims of the prophet, and when you’ve worn yourself out working for the church, you can go to your grave and wait for Nathan to call you. And you can wait and wait and wait. Because I might try to save you from hell on earth, but if you put your hope in Brigham Young, there’s nothing I can do to save you from the hell that waits for you after you die.”
My spine curled with every word, until Evangeline was cowering beneath my arched stance. I released my grip on her wrist and stepped away, spent.
“It’s late,” I said. It wasn’t, really, but it was dark, and the last few minutes had taken on the weight of an entire day. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”
“Go on upstairs. I’ll take care of it.”
“But—”
“I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help. Go to bed.”
I dared not risk another word, lest she decide I wasn’t deserving of a bed that very night. “Very well, then,” I said. “Good night.”
I took a long matchstick from the tall box on the wall by the stove and touched its tip to the lamp’s flame. With my hand cupped to protect the fledgling light, I made my way upstairs, going directly to my window. One by one I touched the match to the three candlewicks on my windowsill.
“If there’s ever a time when you don’t feel safe . . .”
I’d no sooner touched the flame to the third candle than I heard a pounding on the door. Not my door, but the front door downstairs. Visitors to Evangeline’s home weren’t rare, but to have one at this time of night was unheard of. Instantly my mind went back to the last time I’d heard such insistent pounding, my last night at home with Nathan and the girls, the night Bishop Childress came to demand my renewed allegiance to the church.
And so they’d found Nathan again. Or he’d sought them out. They were at the door, and within minutes, Evangeline was at mine.
“Sister Camilla?”
She hadn’t bothered to knock. Why should she? This was her house, after all, and she’d caught me with the still-smoking match in my grip. Even though the light from the candles barely reached across the room, I could clearly see triumph in the very way she held her spindly shoulders.
“Who’s here?”
“Two men. They’re here for you.”
Chapter 15
I’d been up and down those stairs a thousand times, but that night it seemed one step was added for each one I took.
Evangeline followed right at my heels, hissing in my ear. “I should have told them everything you said. But I don’t know if I could ever bring myself to say such things against the prophet, even if they weren’t my own thoughts.”
I said nothing. My heart was beating ten times with every step, and I would not waste my words defending myself to Evangeline Moss. Instead, I prayed to God, asking him to give me the strength I needed to stand firm for his truth and to soften the hearts of my interrogators.
I turned the corner into the parlor, surprised to see that Evangeline had invited one of the gentlemen to sit on her sofa, and my stomach dropped to my feet when he stood. Blue coat, broad shoulders, heavy dark brows that knit together atop his broad nose. It was the closest I’d ever seen him, and I’d monstrously underestimated his size, perhaps because I’d only ever seen him from a distance. He was huge; the parlor sofa that served as Evangeline’s bed looked like doll furniture in comparison.
“Sister Camilla Fox?”
His voice was as deep and dark as I’d imagined it would be, and not a hint of humor anywhere near it.
“Yes.” Who else would I be?
“I’ll leave you alone to talk with her,” Evangeline said, sounding a little too eager. “Unless you want me to stay. I could be of some help, you know. I’ve had some experience in such things. Questioning, I mean. And helping people—women, that is—understand the true gospel. Redirecting their path for the good of the church.”
The giant listened patiently, a hat crushed in his hand, and once she stopped talking, he said, “That may be, sister, but I’ve been asked to bring her back.”
“Asked by whom?” Somehow I sounded like I deserved an answer.
“By the highest authority.”
“From Brother Brigham?” Evangeline looked up at him with such adoration, one would think the prophet himself were in the room.
He ignored her. “Please, we need to be going before it gets much later.”
“Will she be coming back?” I’d like to think Evangeline asked this out of concern for my well-being, but her essence of satisfaction prevented me from any such charitable thought.
“We aren’t at liberty to say.”
We. And that’s when I noticed that, with each response, he’d been making eye contact with his companion—a figure who’d remained seated in one of the parlor chairs, keeping his back to me. The giant looked at him aga
in, only this time he nodded, inviting the second man to stand.
At that moment, my blood ran hot up one side of my body and cold down the other. He was equally tall as the giant, but infinitely thinner. Thinner, in fact, than I remembered. It was all I could do to refrain from leaping clear off the floor, but he fixed his eyes on me with an unpracticed sternness I dared not disobey. Before that night, I’d never have guessed that Private Lambert was capable of commanding such authority.
“Yes,” Private Lambert said, holding himself taller in some attempt to make his voice deeper. “We need Mrs.—Sister—Fox, Sister Camilla Fox to come with us.”
“Where are you taking her?” Worry mixed with suspicion crept behind Evangeline’s question.
“We aren’t at liberty to reveal that, either,” Private Lambert said, attempting for all the world to match the giant’s tone.
“Well, of course,” Evangeline said. “Heavenly Father’s greatest work is often done in secret, I’ve always said.”
“Then you are a wise sister, indeed.” The giant gave her a little bow as he said this, and I did not imagine the girlish giggle that escaped Evangeline’s thin, chapped lips.
“I’ll help Sister Camilla gather her things,” she said, “and then, don’t worry; I’ll have her right back down. The Lord’s work shall not wait.” She turned to me. “Come.”
With a lightness in my heart I could not have imagined only days ago, I once again walked ahead of a whispering Evangeline.
“Now, don’t be frightened. Remember, whatever happens, they are doing the work of Heavenly Father. It’s for your own good and the assurance of your salvation and eternity.”
“I’ll try to remember.”
We came back to my room.
“Three candles. I never noticed that before. Seems wasteful.”
“They are mine; I brought them with me. I’ll burn them as I see fit.”
“Of course.”
I found the small satchel with which I’d arrived and packed my few, meager things—stockings, petticoats, my Bible. Evangeline made no comment on what I took or didn’t; she merely paced the room, wringing her hands. Poor thing seemed genuinely concerned.
“And I didn’t mean what I said, about it being best for you to die tonight.”
“I know.” Though I was in no mood to reassure her.
“I think I’ll ask again if they can’t just interview you here. It’s so very cold outside; I can’t imagine—”
“I’m in God’s hands now, Evangeline. Delivered over. You needn’t worry.”
I snuffed out all but one candle and picked it up to light my way back downstairs. Like some sort of faithful dog, Evangeline was at my feet, speaking what I’m sure she thought were words of comfort, but had I not known exactly where I was going, I would have had to be led from this house kicking and screaming.
“You must let them spill your blood,” she said close to my ear. “Once baptized, we cannot be fully restored without suffering the same as our savior. It’s the truest atonement.”
I held her tight, knowing she would slash herself on any altar for her beloved prophet. Her body shuddered against mine, and I stepped away, holding her hands. “Why are you crying?”
“I want more than anything to see you brought back to the church, Camilla. But I don’t want them to hurt you.”
Her face bore witness to her conflict. My confession danced on the tip of my tongue, but God held it still. I was about to walk out of this house not into a lie, but into an unspoken truth.
I gave her a soft kiss on each freckled cheek and said, “I love you, Sister Evangeline,” before gathering up my satchel and returning to the parlor. There, I allowed Private Lambert to hold my bag while I put on my coat after wrapping my head and throat several times over in a thick wool scarf. Evangeline, in a final, sweet gesture, gave me a pair of mittens that stretched up to my elbows, and by the time I was ready to walk out the door, nobody—not even Nathan himself—would have recognized me. My eyes remained my only exposed feature, and I bent to Evangeline to allow her to place her own dry kiss right between them before stepping through the door held open by the giant.
In what I can only assume was part of their ruse, each man took me by the elbow and escorted me down the street. Between their strides and their heights, there were times I believe my feet were lifted completely off the ground, the way Nathan and I would walk the girls when they were little, with big, swinging steps. None of us spoke—not a single word—until we were well around the corner from Evangeline’s street. There, right in front of the darkened home of some distant neighbor, both men released their grip, and I pulled the muffler away from my mouth to take my first stinging breath.
“How?” It was all I had breath to say.
Private Lambert did all he could to maintain an appropriate soldierlike facade, but his sweet face was obviously poised at the point of bursting into unabashed joy. “Good to see you doing so well, ma’am.”
“Good to see you, too.” I looked to the giant.
“Horace Braugen,” he said with a most gentlemanly bow.
“So you’re not with Brigham’s militia?”
“That depends on who you ask.”
I looked to Private Lambert, whose face was now an unreadable mask, then back to Braugen. “Are you a Mormon, then?”
“Was,” he said, “and am when I need to be.”
He bowed, took my mittened hand, kissed it, then placed it firmly in Private Lambert’s, whose face I imagined turned as red as Evangeline’s hair. “Private, I officially deliver to you your sainted Sister Camilla Fox.”
With that, he continued walking, leaving Private Lambert and me in the middle of the dark street.
“How did you know?” I tried again.
Private Lambert tried looking me in the eye but soon straightened his spine and gazed at something over my head. “I’m not privy to the details, ma’am.”
“Well, who is?”
“Colonel Brandon. He’s waiting just north of town, and by my calculation we have about twenty minutes to get to him before he comes for you himself.”
“Then we’d better hurry.”
Normally by this time of day my body would be so worn out from battling cold and hunger that I could only long for the relative comfort of Evangeline’s narrow bed and the pile of quilts that would afford enough warmth for me to eventually go to sleep. That night, however, my feet took flight, and I matched Private Lambert’s loping stride with two of my steps to each one of his.
“Careful we don’t seem to be running,” he cautioned more than once. “We don’t want to arouse suspicion.”
And while the streets of Salt Lake City were largely deserted at this dark, cold hour, we did come across pockets of Saints out on purposeful strolls, returning from family visits, perhaps, or doing some last-minute church business. While, as far as I knew, the town had no officially enforced curfew, I’d never known anybody to be roaming about much after nine o’clock, and while I wagered it could not have been much past seven thirty when we left, the night was cloudless, almost oppressively dark, with a stinging cold that felt like a million shards of ice.
Once again as we approached the temple, I could hear the sounds of men working, and as the site came into view, I stopped in my tracks, shocked at the sight. It was gone—almost completely. Where the massive structure once stood as testament to the prophet’s church, now something akin to a grave buried all but the heartiest corners of his people’s labor.
Private Lambert tugged my sleeve, saying, “Come on, please, ma’am,” and I fell in step again. Unlike Lot’s wife, though, I was leaving nothing here that I loved. I turned my head, allowing the younger man’s grip to guide my steps, and I stared at the crew laboring through the night to bury Brigham’s dream until I could see them no more.
“How much farther?” My lungs were burning with each short breath.
“Do you need to rest?”
I swallowed. “No.” But I did. My steps ha
d now slowed to where I allowed him to get several strides ahead of me before I had to run a few to catch up, and then again.
“You can stay here if you like. I can send the colonel back with a horse.”
What could draw more attention than a Mormon woman mounting a horse in the middle of town late at night?
“I’ll be fine. Is he where you camped before?” I’d never make it that far.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Resolute, I repeated, “I’ll be fine,” and I prayed that God would lift my feet in one step after another to deliver me from this place.
We passed through one fashionable neighborhood, just a few streets away from where I knew the lights of Rachel and Tillman’s home would burn late into the evening. Indeed, all of these homes boasted a warm glow, and strains of music—pianofortes and singing—made their way into the crisp night air.
“Pretty,” Private Lambert offered over his shoulder.
“Always,” I agreed, trotting to bridge the distance between us.
Eventually houses grew fewer and fewer, and we were on nothing more than a wide dirt path that I knew to be one of the main roads into the city. Each step now was a battle, and while I hadn’t even thought about what would await me once we reached the destination of Colonel Brandon, I began to crane my neck, keeping my eyes peeled for firelight, lamplight, or any sign of stopping. And then, quite silently and suddenly, he was right in front of me.
“Mrs. Fox.”
Had I an ounce of strength within me, I could not excuse my actions, but at that moment my very legs gave out and I collapsed most clumsily into his arms. I clutched at his coat, though my thick mittens prevented any such purchase, so instead I wrapped my hands around the width of his arms and fell against him.
“There now,” he said, and I could feel his hands giving reassuring pats to my back, “you’re safe now. I’m here—we’re here.”
My mouth felt like it was full of winter hay, and I could not speak. Slowly, though, I tested my weight and moved away from the colonel’s embrace once I knew I was able to stand.
Forsaking All Others Page 15