“Now, I’ll be servin’ a supper downstairs, but you just get yourself tucked in and I’ll bring up a tray. A full day on horseback is mighty hard on a woman.”
“Thank you,” I said with genuine relief. “You’re very kind.”
As she closed the door behind herself, I went immediately to the washbasin, alarmed at the vision that greeted me in the mirror. Dust had settled into every crease and corner of my face, and what wasn’t tinged brown with dust was red with sun- and windburn. I filled the basin with water, rolled up my sleeves, plunged in my hands, and splashed my face. Oh, the cool refreshment. After a quick check to see that the door was locked, I stripped off my dust-soiled dress and dabbed a washcloth along my shoulders and arms, trying to ignore the quickly browning water.
The nightgown felt cool and soft against my bare skin, and it smelled of sweet cedar. It was now fully dark outside, so I didn’t feel completely indulgent in crawling into the bed. The mattress was a soft straw tick, more comfortable than I’d slept on since leaving home, and for just a moment I worried that I might fall asleep before getting a chance to eat whatever smelled so delicious downstairs. My fears proved unfounded, however, when Mrs. Fennel walked in carrying a tray with a steaming dish of shepherd’s pie.
“I feel like royalty.”
“Well, you look half-dead. Sure you have the strength to eat?”
I nodded and sat up straighter, my mouth watering at the sight of the mixture of lamb, carrots, and potatoes in a rich gravy on the plate.
“I’d like to stay with you so’s you’d have someone to talk to, but I got a room full of men downstairs that are gonna keep me hoppin’. You’ll be all right?”
I nodded again, this time my mouth too full of food to speak politely. Mrs. Fennel instructed me to leave my tray outside the door after I had finished, and then she left me alone with my supper. It didn’t last long. I wolfed the food in a matter of minutes, washing it down with gulps of fresh, cold milk. The last bite was a battle against fullness and fatigue, but I managed it down and fell against my pillows, exhausted. It took the last bit of my strength to get up and set the tray outside my door, where I found Colonel Brandon opening his own right across the hall.
“Mrs. Fox.”
“Colonel Brandon.”
It was the extent of our conversation. I set my tray on the floor, and he disappeared. I climbed back into bed and was asleep within moments.
Chapter 18
Never could two mirrored experiences be so different. Years ago I’d traversed this same land with Nathan. Step by step I’d crossed it, walking one plodding mile after another when I wasn’t sitting on the tongue of somebody’s wagon as a team of oxen took even slower steps. Five miles a day we’d covered—on a good day—and each of those miles passed one blade of grass at a time. If I closed my eyes, I could bring it all back—the relentless sun, the inescapable rain, the days upon days of seeing the same mountain peak on the horizon—no closer at the end of the day than it had been when you were washing up the breakfast dishes. Nathan and I hadn’t had our own wagon, so we’d sleep under the stars, wrapped in each other’s arms. Or we’d sneak off—just over a hill, maybe—to enjoy our newly married life.
And that’s what it felt like. Life. Just a slow-moving home. We sang and cooked. Children played games right alongside the turning wagon wheels. Little girls spied wildflowers and made chains of them; little boys trapped lizards and snakes. Prairie dogs stood on their haunches and watched us rumble by.
But traveling by stage, I hardly knew I was making the same journey. Nothing could have prepared me for the brutality of this transport. The noise was deafening, with the constant rattle of chains, not to mention the stagecoach itself. Mrs. Fennel had indeed procured extra cushioning, which was lashed to the original seat with long leather strips. Without it, I couldn’t imagine the beating my body would have taken. At our first lurching exit from the way station, I found myself tossed from my seat entirely, nearly into the lap of Private Lambert, who at the next stop volunteered to ride shotgun with our driver. This left me alone with Colonel Brandon, something that never affected me during our conversations back at Fort Bridger. But my newfound understanding of his feelings for me put me on edge, and I was actually grateful to focus my attention on remaining upright on the seat.
We stopped four times during the course of the first day—every ten miles, according to our driver. When we came to our fifth and final stop, we’d traveled approximately fifty miles, and though I felt every one of them throughout my aching body, I marveled at the distance. We’d driven the equivalent of more than a week’s travel by wagon. It took me more than a season to leave home; I would be back in less than a month.
To my relief I learned that we would not ride through the night. Any sort of bed—even a straw pallet on rocky soil—would be preferable to more miles of being tossed around in that torturous seat. We’d stopped at the Big Pond station, comprised of one large structure of massive sandstone slabs and several outlying smaller buildings. Here there was no Mrs. Fennel and family bustling about to feed and serve us. In fact, I might well have been the only woman there, which renewed my appreciation for Colonel Brandon’s offer of escort. Upon stopping, our driver had jumped down to go in search of someone to help with the horses, leaving Private Lambert, Colonel Brandon, and me to fend for ourselves in the main building.
The door was wide and square and heavy, if Private Lambert’s obvious effort to open it was any indication, but it opened to a room that managed to be somehow simultaneously cavernous and cozy. The walls were lined with narrow bunks, stacked three high, each with a mattress covered by a neatly tucked-in blanket. Four long tables with benches created an aisle down the center of the room, stretching from the door to an enormous stone fireplace that comprised most of the far wall, where a small, inviting fire burned. Facing it was a gathering of horsehair and leather–covered chairs.
“Care to sit?” Colonel Brandon gestured with his hat.
“No thanks,” I said, arching my back. “I’ve had quite enough sitting for one day.”
“Well, it appears they’ve left supper for us, at least.”
A large, cast-iron kettle sat on the end of one of the tables, with a stack of bowls next to it and a shallow pan covered with a white towel. At a nod from Colonel Brandon, Private Lambert went to it, lifted the lid, and reported, “Beans, sir. And corn bread, sir. They must have known they had soldiers coming.” Then a small smile in my direction. “Beg your pardon, ma’am.”
As it turned out, this building actually had two halls that jutted out from the far wall. To the left, according to a rough-lettered sign, was a kitchen, and to the right, a washroom. I was given leave to wash up first and was pleasantly surprised at the facility. There was a hand pump coming right up from the floor and a row of basins and pitchers set up along a shelf that ran nearly the length of the wall. To my relief, two of the pitchers were already filled, and once again I turned the water gray with a day’s worth of travel dust. I knew I’d have no chance to wash anything other than my face and neck and hands, but even that little bit was refreshing. I opened the back door to dump my dirty water off the porch and paused for just a moment, gazing up into the starlight.
“Good night, sweet girls,” I said, and I prayed that God would keep us all safe until we could look upon the stars together.
When I reentered the main room, two other gentlemen were seated at one of the long tables. Colonel Brandon introduced them to me as Ephraim Henness and Nicholas Farmer. Both had high brows and gray hair with neatly trimmed whiskers and were dressed in well-tailored, dark suits. They were taking the westbound stage headed for Salt Lake City. And then, in a tone that would seem natural to anybody who’d never spent countless hours in conversation with the man, Colonel Brandon introduced me as his wife.
Instantly alert, I took a step closer to Colonel Brandon and said, “Good evening, gentlemen.”
I’d seen these men before. Not these particular ones
, of course, but others upon others just like them, and I knew they were Latter-day Saints.
“Perhaps, then, Mrs. Brandon, you could serve up our supper?” the elder of the two said. “The station cook encouraged us to wait for your arrival. Unsavory character himself, so we’re quite pleased to know we have more civilized company.”
My smile remained frozen. “I’d be happy to.”
Colonel Brandon and Private Lambert took turns excusing themselves to clean up in the washroom, purposefully not leaving me alone with Brothers Ephraim and Nicholas, for which I was grateful. The men exchanged small talk about the weather and travel, while I took a lamp and ventured into the kitchen. Not caring whether or not I had the resident cook’s permission, I built up the fire in the cookstove and set a kettle of water on to boil, having located a tin of tea on a shelf.
Upon returning to the table, I ladled out beans, passed the corn bread, and poured glasses of cold water. When all were seated, Colonel Brandon offered to say a blessing for the meal, but Brother Ephraim raised his hand.
“May I inquire first, sir, if you are in right relationship with our Lord?”
Colonel Brandon smiled warmly, almost indulgently, and said, “Yes, sir. I am a Christian.”
Now it was the Saints’ turn to offer their own condescension in allowing this Gentile to lead them in prayer. At his invitation, we joined hands—Private Lambert at my right and Colonel Brandon at my left—and bowed our heads.
“Father in heaven,” he prayed, and I wondered if he held Brother Ephraim’s hand as tightly as he held mine, “we give you thanks for our safe journey and for the hospitality of those who will give us food and lodging this night. We ask a special blessing for them and to be held in your mercy for the rest of our travels. Please allow your healing hand to rest upon Camilla’s father, that she may see him on earth before he goes on to glory. In the name of your Son, Jesus Christ, in whom alone we can find salvation, amen.”
As I opened my eyes, I let my hand rest for a moment on Colonel Brandon’s arm and whispered, “Thank you,” as his gaze met mine.
“Your father is ill?” I detected genuine concern in Brother Ephraim’s question.
“Yes,” I said, welcoming the touch as Colonel Brandon’s hand covered mine. “I haven’t seen him since . . . well, in a very long time.”
“Well then,” Brother Ephraim said, “we will keep him in our prayers too. Nothing can be quite as comforting as the love of a child.”
For a little while nobody spoke as we dove into the meal left for us. Whoever this unsavory cook might be, he had a way with spices, as the beans held a delicious flavoring of onion and salt and some other ingredient I could not identify but found delectable.
“Have you not yet been blessed with children?” It was the first Brother Nicholas had spoken since our introduction, other than the most minimal conversation.
Colonel Brandon and I exchanged a glance. I hesitated a breath before answering, “No.” The lie taunted me. In an effort to hide my guilt, I looked to my lap, then brought my hand to my stomach, as if to protect this little one now.
Brother Ephraim pounced upon my gesture. “Perhaps I am wrong, but are you now in the midst of such a blessing?”
Just as I was wondering how I would respond, Colonel Brandon drove a knife through the pan of corn bread, saying, “I’m afraid it’s rather impolite to make the lady’s condition a topic of conversation, and I must ask you to apologize.”
Both brothers reacted as if Colonel Brandon had slapped them in an attempt to defend my honor, and I disguised a smile behind a swipe at my mouth with the back of my hand.
“I assure you we meant no disrespect,” Brother Nicholas said. “My apologies to you both.”
“He’s a soldier,” Brother Ephraim said. He was at least ten years older than Brother Nicholas and obviously considered himself the authority between the two. “Perhaps he sees it as his sworn duty to stir dissension.”
Before he could respond, I took the knife and the pan away from Colonel Brandon and resumed his task.
“Is this your first visit to Salt Lake City, gentlemen?” I stopped myself just short of calling them brothers.
“It is to be our home,” Brother Ephraim said, overstepping Brother Nicholas’s attempt to respond. “We have been five years in England and Wales on mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Tell me, are you acquainted with our faith?”
“We are,” Colonel Brandon said.
“Nope,” Private Lambert said at the same time.
I said nothing.
“Well then, my young man, given these uncertain times, perhaps you would like to be acquainted with the true gospel of Jesus Christ.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” Colonel Brandon said.
“I believe the young man can speak for himself,” a newly outraged Brother Nicholas said.
“No, he cannot. He is under my command.”
Private Lambert looked from one man to the other, carefully chewing his food.
“I see,” Brother Ephraim said. “But my brother and I are not under your command, so you cannot stop us from sharing our faith. Oh, wait, I seem to have forgotten. That is exactly what your president is endeavoring to do, isn’t it? To deny my people our constitutional rights to practice our religion? And from what I have heard in my letters from our church leadership, you are ready to wage war if we attempt to exercise our rights.”
“We are here,” Colonel Brandon said, the hand not holding a fork balled into a fist, “to keep peace. And—”
“And I would like to have peace at this table,” I interrupted, laying my hand on his arm. “Certainly we could find a more neutral topic of conversation. Tell us, Brother Ephraim, more about England. We’ve never been.”
The Mormon man’s eyebrow shot up at my use of the word brother, and I realized too late the degree of familiarity I’d taken—something no Gentile would ever do. His scrutiny intensified, and I felt every bit as targeted as I had the night the bishop and Elder Justus came to demand my rebaptism.
“You, then, I sense, are acquainted with our mission?”
“I? No, nothing beyond what is common knowledge.”
Brother Ephraim leaned forward in an almost-predatory posture. “And just what do you consider ‘common knowledge’?”
Colonel Brandon was on his feet. “Now see here—”
And I was on mine. “I’ve something to attend to in the kitchen. If you all will excuse me.” I grabbed Colonel Brandon’s sleeve and pulled him close, speaking directly into his ear, yet loud enough for all the company. “Do not engage in battle, my darling, when I so desire a night of peace.”
He sat back down and was actually apologizing for his outburst as I walked out of the room. In the kitchen, the kettle was spitting water droplets that hissed on the stove. Finding a towel to protect my hand, I poured the water from the kettle into a serviceable pot and dropped a ball of tea in to steep. Smiling to myself, I filled a tray with the teapot and five white mugs, along with a small dish of sugar.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t find any milk,” I said upon reentering the large room. The four men sat in sullen silence, and I wager not a word had been spoken in my absence. I set the tray on the table. “There was a little sugar, though. This should help soothe our rattled bones.”
Acting quite the lady, I poured a steaming cup to serve to Private Lambert and then another for Colonel Brandon.
“I’m afraid our faith does not permit us to join you,” Brother Nicholas said with more arrogance than apology. “Were you better acquainted with our teachings, you would know that.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” I amassed all the wide-eyed innocence I could muster.
“That’s quite all right,” Brother Ephraim said, and from the glint in his eye, I knew he hadn’t been fooled. “Please, enjoy. It isn’t easy to deny oneself such simple pleasures, even when doing so in obedience to God. I’m afraid we have so many of our Saints who have found the true path of
righteousness to be more difficult to follow than they anticipated. That’s why we were called back from the mission field, in part. Isn’t it, Brother Nicholas?”
“It is, indeed.”
Private Lambert slurped his tea, garnering a disdainful look from both brothers.
“These are very troubling times for our church, as Colonel Brandon here is quite aware.”
“Not quite sure I see the connection,” Colonel Brandon said.
“So many flock to our faith, searching for truth and, dare I say, finding it in the revelation of our prophet. But then, when choices have to be made—” his eyes tracked mine, holding them until I looked away to stir sugar into my tea—“they come to a crisis of faith. The rewards of Heavenly Father are great, but they come at a price. The price of obedience. Some are simply not willing to obey.”
“And you have been summoned to enforce obedience?” Colonel Brandon said.
Brother Ephraim spread his hands wide in a gesture of appeasement. “You see, we have the same duties to perform. You want my people to adhere to the laws of government; I want my people to live by the laws of God. Of course our methods of persuasion are quite different.”
My blood ran cold as inwardly I questioned just how different they were. After all, was I not a fugitive of this very church? I tried to nonchalantly sip my tea under Brother Ephraim’s watchful eye, but even though I held it with both hands, they shook so, sending scalding droplets onto my skin.
“Are you all right?” Colonel Brandon said, taking the cup from me and offering his handkerchief to dry my spill.
“Perhaps that is why the Lord forbids that we imbibe hot drinks,” Brother Ephraim said.
Too late to stop myself, I said, “It is the prophet who says so, not the Lord.”
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