“That little one doesn’t keep you busy enough?”
“He’s napping,” I said, even though she was already on her way to the kitchen. Minutes later she returned with a box wrapped in brown paper. “What’s that?”
She studied the package. “It’s from your Colonel Brandon.”
“He is not my Colonel Brandon.”
“It’s addressed to you.”
I set my knitting aside and, with the eagerness of a schoolgirl, welcomed the package to my lap. Mama handed me our letter opener, which I deftly used to break the string and the sealed edges of the paper. Inside the box were three smaller ones, each wrapped in white paper: one for Mrs. Fox, one for Mrs. Deardon, and one for Baby Charles, according to Colonel Brandon’s fine, bold script.
“Shall we wait for the baby to wake up?” Mama’s eyes shone with her own childlike excitement.
“Don’t be silly. You first.”
Carefully, Mama peeled the paper away from the square, flat box. “Oh, my lands.” She lifted a pale blue square, and I could see it was silk. There were five handkerchiefs in all, each in a different pale pastel, and Mama touched each to her cheek.
“I never known such luxury,” Mama said. “You’ll have to thank him in your next letter.”
“I’ll let you thank him yourself,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear from someone other than me.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Mama said. “Will you open yours? Or would you rather be alone?”
I ignored her comment and unceremoniously ripped at the wrapping. Inside was a long, flat box with the words Carson Bros. New York City stenciled on the top. I lifted the lid and gave my own little sound of pleased surprise when I saw what was nestled inside.
It was a beautiful pair of green kid-leather gloves, long enough to reach well past my wrists.
“Lovely,” Mama said as I held one up for her approval. “Try them on.”
I dropped the box to my forgotten knitting, pulled on the right-hand glove, and thrilled at the warmth.
“They’re lined,” I said, almost squealing. How any craftsman had been able to work in such soft wool and still have a glove that fit the hand so beautifully, I’ll never know. Eagerly, I pulled on the left as well, and what had been pleasant surprise turned into another kind entirely.
“Mama, look.”
I held up my hands. Both of them, whole. Something, perhaps batting from the same wool that lined the fingers, had been rolled and inserted into the fourth and fifth fingers of the left hand. The circumference was identical to my own fingers, and each was tapered and bent at a slight-enough angle to appear completely natural.
“Well, look at that,” Mama said. “Custom-made.”
“He remembered the shape of my hands,” I mused aloud, all the while testing myself to see if I remembered his. I didn’t.
“It’s a very thoughtful gift,” Mama was saying. “Why, with those on, you can’t tell at all.”
“So I’m to wear gloves every day for the rest of my life?” An unwelcome resentment bubbled within me, and I yanked the offending glove off my hand. “Is this something to hide? Something to be ashamed of?”
“Of course not.” Mama settled the lid back on her box of handkerchiefs and loosely wrapped the paper around it. “The man loves you.”
“I know.” I slowly tugged off the other glove. “But I don’t love him, Mama. I wish I did, but I don’t.”
“Pshaw. You loved that Mormon, and look where that got you.”
“Did you love Papa?” An odd question, given their marriage of more than thirty years, but I hadn’t a single memory of any true affection between them, and she seemed detached from any semblance of mourning.
“Of course I did.” Suddenly she appeared far too practical for silk handkerchiefs.
“Were you happy?”
“Oh, my girl.” Mama got up from her seat and came to my side, drawing my head into her bosom and planting a kiss in my hair. “Your papa and me might not have had some great romance, but we prayed together every morning and every night. He took care of me, even makin’ sure I’d be taken care of after he’d gone on.”
“And that was enough?” I pulled away and twisted in my chair to look at her. Every year of her marriage seemed etched across her face, leaving behind tracks of sadness.
She smiled gently at me. “I had a home and I had you. Later, I had hope that you’d come home.”
“So do you think I’m doing the right thing? Divorcing Nathan?” I asked, suddenly craving her advice.
“I’m not the one to be tellin’ you that.”
“Do you think, then, that I should continue to write to Colonel Brandon? He is such a dear friend.”
“Have you promised him anything more?”
“No.” Surely, I hadn’t.
“Then keep writing. You’ll be glad, someday, to have such a friend.”
* * *
February 1, 1859
Dear Colonel Brandon,
It is a bitter, black-cold day. Mama and I have not stepped a foot outside the house since returning from Church on Sunday. (And how thankful we were to have made it safely home.) The house is so cozy, though. We’ve a fire burning in the kitchen, and I have moved myself and Charlie into the downstairs bedroom for the time being. Right now a venison stew is simmering on the stove, and Charlie is cooing in his basket. One would think my heart would be overflowing with joy, but instead it is one of those days choked with trepidation. I fear you and Mama and even Mr. Bostwick assign me more strength and courage than I possess. You were right when you said that I tend to be impetuous. Perhaps I take advantage of the mercy of our Lord. What if I’ve relied once too often on his goodness? What if—?
I stopped, tore the paper to bits, and tossed those bits in the kitchen stove. It was too cold to write at my parlor desk, as we’d adopted the frugal Evangeline’s practice of heating only one room at a time.
“Change of heart?” Mama was at the table too, hemming new diapers for Charlie.
“I can’t find the right words.”
Colonel Brandon’s letters had grown bolder in his affections since Christmas, and I’d been so careful to respond with friendly, cool detachment. I feared that pouring out the emptiness of my heart would be extending to him an invitation to fill it. What I’d been about to write was pain better suited to prayer.
In the bleakness of this winter, sometimes an hour—even an entire afternoon—might go by, and my daughters wouldn’t cross my mind. This morning, I woke up, and they had not been my first awareness. If I experienced these lapses, what must be happening in their young, ever-changing minds? I used to worry about whether they would forgive me; now I found myself plagued with the chance that they might forget me.
But I’d share none of this with Colonel Brandon, nor would I share it with my mother. Where he would reply with a letter full of praise for my strength as well as a reminder of why it was so important to have a partner with whom to share such fears, Mama would just look up from her sewing and tell me that my fears were silly.
I dipped the ladle into the stew and brought it to my lips. “This is ready,” I said over my shoulder.
“It’s not suppertime.” Mama didn’t even look up.
“I think I’ll eat early, though, and go to the prayer meeting at church.”
That got her attention.
“Tonight? It’s too cold for you to go out there.”
“It’s cold, but it’s clear.” I reached down a bowl from the cupboard, as if the question were already resolved. “I’m feeling a bit cooped up. I need the walk as much as anything, and if I leave early enough, I’ll get to the church before dark.”
“It’s too cold to take the baby.”
“I don’t intend to take him, Mama. Nor do I want you to go with me. I need . . .” How could I explain? My spirit felt like an extension of the winter sky. Clear, yes, but gray. No new prayer fell from my lips, and everything I’d lifted to the Lord seemed to have f
allen back to my feet like the old, packed snow on which I would walk. I needed to be surrounded by fresh voices. I needed the prayers of others to reinforce my own.
“You need to be careful,” Mama said, finishing my thought. “Fill up with that hot stew, and wear your wool petticoat. And mittens over your nice lined gloves.”
* * *
By the time I reached the main road into town, I was almost to the point of regretting my decision. My breath crystallized on the scarf wrapped up to my nose, and the very air stung my eyes. Each breath was fresh, though it might have pained my lungs to take it, and my legs grew stronger with each stride. Still, the sight of smoke billowing from the church’s chimney was the sweetest I’d seen in days, and I hastened my pace toward it.
Though the clock on the wall showed I was early, I was far from the first to arrive. I walked in to a sea of hushed conversations, none of which my presence would interrupt, even as I made my way back to the stove. In the glow of its warmth, I unwound my scarf and peeled off my gloves. Now recognizable, I garnered a little more attention. Reverend Harris’s wife asked about the baby, and Mrs. Pearson sent her regards to Mama. Their welcome did as much to warm me as did the stove. Soon I could take off my coat, and as more people came in, I relinquished my spot. Mrs. Harris patted the seat beside her, but I chose a seat on the aisle just three rows up and bowed my head.
“Good evening, my brothers and sisters in Christ.” The voice of Reverend Harris came through my darkness and I opened my eyes to find him smiling right at me. “How sweet to come together in this hour of prayer. And a special thank-you to Mr. O’Ryan for getting here early to lay the fire.”
The room echoed with appreciation.
When we were quiet once again, Reverend Harris led us in a prayer dedicating the next hour to the petitions to be brought to the Father, and upon our collective amen, he invited those gathered to share their hearts. There was, of course, the usual array of those to lift up the sick and the weary. I learned that one of our oldest members—Miss Goldie—would surely meet her Savior before the end of the week. We also collectively praised God for the Stinsons’ new baby and the fact that their oldest seemed to have weathered the measles. I listened to their stories and joined my heart with theirs in prayer, though not out loud. While I felt I had found my place in this church, I’d not yet found my voice.
When the hour was nearly up, Reverend Harris surveyed the small gathering. “I feel there is one more among us in need.”
Had he said as much when I first walked in, I might have melted in my seat. Instead, whether it was the brisk walk in the cold or the hour spent surrounded by true brothers and sisters too humble to call themselves saints, I felt a new layer of strength just under my skin. The church was quiet—mine the only head not bowed in prayer. Slowly, subtle whispers filled the room like steam, and I found myself rising from my seat. My hands ceased to cling to each other, and I held them—palms up—in front of me, warmed from above.
“Yes, Camilla?” Reverend Harris said. Neither he nor any of the townspeople ever addressed me as Mrs. Fox. “How may we pray for you?”
In a thousand hours I could never have spoken all my needs, nor was this the place to make them plain. I could not tell this room full of husbands and wives that I prayed God’s blessing on a divorce. As kind and Christlike as these people appeared, I knew there were those who viewed me as a woman who had forsaken her husband and abandoned her children. And given all that, how could I share my dilemma about Colonel Brandon? That I longed to love one man while I was still married to another?
All of this I lifted to the Lord with renewed faith that he would answer, but I spoke aloud only one pressing need.
“I ask only that the Lord bring a swift end to this winter.”
* * *
April 23, 1859
Dear Colonel Brandon,
This will be a short letter, and quite possibly my last for a while. If you question the erratic penmanship, let me explain that my excitement is such I can hardly hold the pen. Mr. Bostwick joined us for dinner this afternoon—an official visit as my attorney. Not long after Mama cleared the dishes, he presented me with the written receipt for our paid passage to Utah via the Overland Stage. We are due to leave within the next two weeks. I am breathless with anticipation. I do not know how I am to sleep or eat or perform the most mundane of household chores. My heart and mind are filled with the voices of my children. Charlie cries, and I hear Melissa; he chortles, and there’s my Lottie. My arms ache to hold them. Mama and I have spent a good amount of time this winter making pretty new quilts for their beds. How I long for the night we will kneel together and pray. I look out the window and I see them playing with tiny teacups beneath our tree. I pray each and every night that they will find it a joyous thing to come live in this home.
I paused to allow the ink to dry on the page and took in the scene around me. How could my girls feel anything but love and comfort here? Mama was at the stove boiling milk, to which she would add a bit of sugar and a drop or two of cod-liver oil—a concoction Charlie would take from a rubber-topped bottle when it cooled. The question of weaning the baby so early had been my greatest concern for my journey west. But he’d taken to the bottle as easily as I could hope, given that I still nursed him in the morning and late at night. He’d also taken a few bites of mashed yam and had gummed a small bite of milk-soaked bread.
“I’ll keep that boy fit as a fiddle while you’re away,” Mama said as she stirred. “You tell that to your Colonel Brandon.”
I smiled. “Perhaps you can take over my letter writing while I’m away.”
“Oh, I don’t think the man wants to hear from the likes of me.”
“Colonel Brandon is my friend, Mama. Nothing more.” Though I was certain he wished more of me. He had not openly professed his love, but his letters consistently conveyed an affection I fought to keep out of mine. And while I wrote endlessly about the current happenings in our home, he often alluded to the future. He’d yet to specifically include me in that future, but he never failed to reference a time when we would see each other again. I’d felt a certain safety in writing—our correspondence had been a way to pass the long, hot summer days of my growing pregnancy and the long, bleak winter days as I waited to embark on this journey. But now, on the brink of such change, I knew there would be a shift in his pursuit. Soon, God willing, I would no longer be married, opening the door for a courtship, even if only through letters. Still, I was no more prepared to enter such a relationship than I had been the day I first awoke to Colonel Brandon’s searching eyes.
Mama gave a knowing hmmm and continued stirring as I turned the page over and continued.
I shall not write to you again until my family is here restored. It’s not that I wish to keep you uninformed; I simply do not know what opportunities I will have.
I took this journey once before with you, and I will bring my never-ending gratitude with me once again. I shall miss the strength of your presence, but I hope I can rely on the strength of your prayers. In the meantime, I know Mr. Bostwick will take good care of me. He is an exceedingly kind man, and traveling with him will be akin to what it must be like to travel with an attentive father.
As for what my new distinction in life will mean to our standing with each other, I beg of you to be patient with me. I travel with a mission to bring my daughters to a home where they can grow to know Jesus Christ. What that entails for my marriage I cannot say. The matter is not entirely in my hands. Moreover, I cannot claim my heart as my own. It is now given to my Savior, and only he can direct my path. Rest assured, my dear, dear friend, I have nothing but the greatest appreciation for your regard.
Your letters hint often of a future we might share together. To that I have only this to say: I cannot give you an answer of any kind. You’ve no right to expect more. I am not angry; I simply implore you to remember my state. Do not cause me to sin by introducing thoughts no married woman should entertain.
You have
made your case. Allow me to make my peace.
Seeking courage,
I remain your dearest friend,
Camilla Fox
Chapter 27
I saw the unfolding of the city through a narrow slit of window, holding the blind to the side as the stagecoach made its way through the streets. It was well past dark—nearly nine o’clock according to Mr. Bostwick’s timepiece. We were delivered right to the Salt Lake post office, which seemed fitting, as we shared the coach with a dozen sacks of mail. Mr. Bostwick commented that such an amount spoke to the growth of the city, or perhaps the lingering enthusiasm for the restored postal contract. I only knew that they caused me to twist and turn uncomfortably in my seat, and my face still bore the burlap-sack pattern where I’d taken advantage of the rough, uneven pillow.
The way the two of us comported ourselves, one would be at a loss to determine who was visiting this city for the first time. Mr. Bostwick solicitously handed me down from the stage, and I folded myself against the cool adobe wall. Despite Mr. Bostwick’s normally persuasive powers, nothing would convince our driver to take us to the Hotel Deseret on West Third Street.
“I ain’t a cab,” he’d said through a haze of cigar smoke.
“We could walk,” I said when Mr. Bostwick poked his head back inside to deliver the news. “It isn’t far, and I would love a chance to stretch my legs.”
“And what of our bags? You’re coming back with much more than you had when you left.”
“Of course.”
Hard to believe I was the same woman who’d fled first through the snow, then in the night with little more than a bundle of belongings. Now we would need to hire a porter at the station to load and unload my two trunks, and Mr. Bostwick’s luggage besides. Where once I’d worn a sadly adapted dress from a charity barrel, I now wore one of two stylish traveling suits. True, I’d been wearing it for over a week with just the barest of dust brushing and a daily changing of shirtwaist, but the cut was impeccable and the wool somehow perfectly weighted to ward off the chilly mornings and evenings without being swelteringly hot in the afternoons. Besides these, I had two calicoes that, except for the fact that they were crisp and new, would dress me identically to any Mormon woman. On this I insisted, though Mr. Bostwick would rather I represent myself as a woman of considerable means.
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