Forsaking All Others Page 6

  “Oh,” he said, his voice a mixture of understanding and relief. “Yes, of course. We have our own delivery system.”

  “So you’ll be sending a post out?”

  “This isn’t something I need to discuss with you.”

  “I need to send a letter.”

  “Mrs. Fox, I don’t think—”

  “I need to send a letter home. Back home, to my parents. I need them to know the truth. Where I am and why I’m here.”

  I’d worked myself into quite a state by then, and Colonel Brandon gripped my shoulders. “Of course you can write your letter, and I’ll send it back with our carrier. I’ll give it my personal seal, so there’ll be no delay.”

  “Thank you.” I felt calmer now. “In fact, would you be so good as to write the letter on my behalf?”

  “I could.” He stepped away, his gaze dropping to my mutilated hand. At some unspoken request, I lifted it for him to see, and he encircled his fingers around my wrist, turning my hand at all angles for his inspection. “I’m so sorry. But I’m sure in time you’ll learn to write with the other.”

  Embarrassed, I snatched my hand away. “Oh no, that’s not the reason. You see, I’ve been writing to my parents for years—twice a year, actually, since leaving home. And they return my letters. Unopened.”

  “I see. Wait here.”

  He was gone for just a moment before returning with several sheets of paper and a small black box. In a gesture I’d just recently begun to recognize, he held one of the chairs out for me, and I took what had at some point become my place while he sat opposite. The little black box contained a bottle of ink and a pen, and the paper turned out to be good, thick stationery with his own name emblazoned across the top in fine calligraphy flanked by two waving flags.

  “Look official enough?”

  “Indeed.”

  I scooted my chair closer and propped my elbows on the table as he dipped the pen’s nib in the ink, touched it to a piece of blotting paper attached to the underside of the box lid and then to the paper, where he wrote the date in an elegant hand: January 30, 1858.

  “Your parents’ names?”

  “Deardon. Arlen and Ruth.” I couldn’t remember the last time I said their names aloud, and I repeated them again, just to double the familiarity.

  Colonel Brandon narrated as he wrote, telling my parents that he was writing on behalf of their daughter, Camilla, who was in excellent health and currently under the protection of the United States Army.

  “Wait,” I interrupted. “If you say that, they’ll think I’m in some kind of danger.”

  “It’s my belief that you are.” He lifted the paper and blew across the ink before continuing.

  “Please tell them that I have two daughters—Melissa and Lottie.”

  “They don’t know?”

  I shook my head. “They’ve never opened my letters. Once, I even sent a lock of Lottie’s hair so they could see how very much it is like mine. ‘Straight as a plank’ is what my mother used to say. And almost the same color.”

  He didn’t share my smile. Instead, he looked right past me, and I imagined his mind was miles away from this little room.

  “Do you have children, Colonel Brandon?”

  “Yes,” he said, shifting his gaze back to me. “A son. Robert. He’ll be twelve years old this spring.”

  “It must be hard to be separated from him. I know I miss my little girls terribly. But at least you know . . . I mean, I assume your wife is a good Christian woman.”

  “She was, yes.”

  That word, was, lingered between us, leaving nothing more to be said except “I’m so sorry.”

  “Well—” he pushed the ink bottle and paper across the table and held out the pen—“I think it best you continue from here. They might be more reassured seeing the rest of the letter in your hand. I’ll leave an addressed envelope with Private Lambert.”

  Having made this decision, he stood, and if I had any objection, I was given no opportunity to voice it. But I didn’t. Instead, I faced this empty page like I had so many others, from the first letter I wrote telling them I had become Mrs. Nathan Fox, to the last one with its words blurred with tears as I wrote about the death of my tiny son. What was I going to tell them now? It seemed somehow pointless to tell them every detail of the life I’d lived since I last saw them. There wasn’t enough room on the page, not enough ink in the bottle, not enough strength in my hand or heart to wrap it all in words.

  I stared at Colonel Brandon’s writing, decisive and strong. He’d written your daughter, Camilla, in such a way that all the letters of my name were tucked inside the C. Protective even in penmanship. I wished I could bring my girls here. To this place. Surely the three of us could live in this tiny room for a while. Until spring. But I knew Nathan would never stand for such a thing, and though I missed them, I had to remind myself that the girls were safe and warm and loved. But what of their faith? What of their hearts?

  Much as I tried to recall my father’s voice speaking to me in any kind of warmth or love, only one sound followed me from the home he provided for me to the home I made with Nathan: his shouting about the Mormons. “Those blaspheming, whoring heathens.” I know now that he was afraid of them, of what they would do to me. What they would mean to me. He was terrified that I’d join my life to them, the charm of their teachers blinding me to the falseness of their teaching. And now, here I was, scared of the same thing for my children.

  I hadn’t added a single word to Colonel Brandon’s. The pain of all my returned letters stilled my hand, and I knew my words alone wouldn’t break through the wall built between my parents and me. What would I say? That my father was right? I couldn’t justify the bile behind my father’s words. Would I simply say that I had left my husband? Certainly I wasn’t the first woman to feel cheated and disillusioned, and I couldn’t bear to tell them about Nathan’s taking a second wife. I didn’t want to be tainted by his sin. I needed them not only to welcome me home, but to forgive me, and how could I ever pour my repentance through a pen?

  Words flitted through my head, each emptier than the last, and almost without thinking, I reached across the table and found my Bible. What question could I possibly have that wouldn’t be answered here? Since I couldn’t rely on my own voice, I turned to the voice of my Savior, because he’d told my story in the parable of the lost son. I read the story over and over, seeing myself in the young son who abandoned his father and home. That final sight of my father on the riverbank, gun and torch in hand, gave me little hope that he would be waiting for me with open arms at our farm’s gate. I looked around my cozy little room, hardly seeing it as the vile pigsty the vain young man encountered, and not long ago my life with Nathan had been full of love and children and joy.

  But then, there had come the night—that first night when he brought Amanda to the house. I don’t think I ever really believed he would take a second wife. It didn’t seem real until the day he brought her into our home. More so the night he took her into our bed. That’s when I found myself perishing.

  Unwilling to face the memories, I faced the words on the page.

  “And when he came to himself, he said, How many hired servants of my father’s have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger! I will arise and go to my father.”

  That was it. Finally I had come to myself. Free from the tide of Nathan’s affections, free from the never-ending needs of my daughters, free from the relentless pressures of the Saints to join myself more ardently to their faith. I was in the same place I’d been before leaving home almost eight years ago. Alone in a room, Nathan out there somewhere, an undecided part of my future. But while he had pulled me into his life all those years ago on the riverbank, he could not touch me now.

  Gripping the pen, I wrote:

  Mama, Papa—I write now in my own hand. I have come to myself. I have sinned against you, my parents, and I have sinned against God. I pray that you will welcome me home. Look for me at the
gate come spring.

  Truly, I had no idea how that reunion would come to be, but I would not think past that moment of reconciliation. After signing the letter, Your repentant daughter, Camilla, I blew gently across the page and, satisfied the words were solidly attached, folded the paper and took it out to Private Lambert, who stood and fumbled with an envelope.

  “I’m instructed to take this directly to Colonel Brandon, ma’am?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He handled my letter as if it were glass. “Not sure when the next post’ll be out.”

  “Don’t tell me when it does.”

  “Ma’am?” The catch in his voice gave the word three syllables.

  “If it’s tomorrow or three weeks from now, I don’t want to know. I’m going to assume, Private, that by placing it in your hands, it’s as good as sent.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” But he didn’t seem any less confused.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the few lines in that letter brought to light the depth of my sin and my urgent need for grace. He didn’t seem to be strong enough to carry such a burden, and I didn’t want to spend the ensuing months with my ear turned toward the window, listening for mail call. Anticipating an answer, waiting for grace. For I would stay here as long as Colonel Brandon and his troops would extend their hospitality. Come spring I would make the journey home alone, and I would need this time to gather my courage and my strength, because one look, one touch from Nathan Fox, and both would melt like snow.

  Chapter 6

  I did not see Colonel Brandon for two days after watching him pen the opening of the letter to my parents. I passed the time reading my Bible and, having kept the ink and pen, pestered the soldier posted outside my door for more paper time and time again. Finally Private Lambert knocked softly at the door and, with a covert glance over his shoulder, presented me with a ledger book bound with red cardboard. Several sheets had been ripped from the front of it, leaving me with pages upon pages of empty lines. True, they were divided into columns, but I soon learned to ignore them as I wrote.

  At first I returned to my childhood habit of noting a meaningful Bible verse each day, but that was the practice of a girl who struggled to read even one chapter per evening. Now, as I spent hours poring over the Scriptures, it seemed unfathomable to choose one verse, one sentence to carry more meaning than the next. Every word seemed precious, and the more I studied, the more I wondered how anyone could choose the ramblings of a false prophet over these sacred writings.

  And so, rather than pick and choose to expound on God’s truths, I set out to write my own story. How I came to meet and love and follow Nathan Fox. How I let the lies of Joseph Smith grow like yeast in my heart and mind, how the death of my child and life with a sister wife brought me back to truth. Exactly who I was writing this for, I didn’t know. Much as I wanted to believe otherwise, I knew there was some chance that my parents would refuse to welcome me back into their home. This, then, would tell my story. Sometimes I feared I might never see my daughters again, and this would tell the story of why and how I left. But I flicked this thought away, quickly and often, like a pesky summer fly. If anything, we would read these pages together. All of us, my daughters on my lap, my father at the table, my mother stirring supper on the stove.

  I relived it all as I wrote, remembering those days when my future was as uncertain as it seemed now. Someday I would be somewhere, looking back on this time. I tried to borrow on that future assurance that God was with me, just as I could look to my past and see him guarding my steps, no matter how wayward my path.

  Although I couldn’t imagine why anyone would risk reprimand to give me such a treasure, I nonetheless treated it as well-meaning contraband and took pains to have it tucked away under my mattress long before I could expect any of my regular interruptions—mealtime, a stroll to the outhouse, and the like. Therefore, after such a long absence, when Colonel Brandon interrupted my afternoon composition with a harsh pounding at my door, I chose to forgo the usual hiding place and simply stood, slipped the book onto my chair, and sat back down upon it, trying to sound calm and natural as I beckoned him to come in.

  His face gave away nothing to enlighten me to his current mood. Instead, expressionless, he strode in and, with no prelude, set a black bottle of ink on the table. “I figured you must be running low by now.”

  “Thank you,” I said, offering no explanation of my own.

  “You’ve been writing.”

  It was impossible for me to tell whether his statement was intended as a question or a reprimand, so I treated it as neither and said nothing. Instead, I sat with my hands folded in my lap in a new fashion I’d adopted meant to conceal the amputation of my fingers.

  After a few moments’ pacing he asked, “May I sit?” which he went on to do without awaiting my permission. “I see you presume to return to Iowa.”

  “You read my letter.”

  “It’s customary for a prisoner’s correspondence to come under a certain scrutiny.”

  “You sound as if you disapprove.”

  “I’ve been thinking.” He drummed his fingers on the table, and I waited. I’d grown so comfortable with silence. “You said you intend to travel back east in the spring.”

  “I hope to, yes. If you’ll allow.”

  “And how do you intend to get there?”

  “If I remember correctly, I arrived on a horse. I assume she is corralled somewhere, or will I have to charge the United States Army with horse thievery?”

  He raised a brow, along with a corner of his moustache. “And what of your daughters?”

  I felt myself bristle in defense of my decision. “I can’t stay here—in Deseret, I mean. I need a home to bring my girls to. I need to know that I can have that with my parents, or at least with their help. It seems to me a logical conclusion, Colonel. Hardly worth days of stewing.”

  “In fact, Mrs. Fox, I’ve been thinking about my own boy. How he lives day to day unsure of his father’s well-being. He’s cared for and loved, of course, but the uncertainty of his father—well, I know it’s hard. I write as often as I can, but still, he may go years without seeing me and even months without hearing any news. It hardly seems fair to saddle him with so much worry.”

  Something flickered within me—a twisting of hope and dread. “So you’re going to tell me to go back to my husband?”

  “The idea has crossed my mind. Since you won’t be able to travel until spring. But naturally, it’s up to you.”

  “I have a choice?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course? Two minutes ago I was a prisoner and you were reading my personal letters. Now I’m just, just . . . nothing?”

  After initial, unchecked amusement, he settled into a quizzical look. “You have always been here at my discretion, Mrs. Fox. And like any reasonable man, my discretion is rarely absolute.”

  “So I’m no longer in danger of being the spark that would ignite a war?” I was being sarcastic now, pouting a little. I must admit to having been somewhat hurt by my diminished importance.

  He looked clearly uncomfortable. “It could be that my decision to keep you here was not entirely motivated by military protocol. Call it old-fashioned chivalry, a natural, protective nature. But I realize now my decision is keeping you away from your children. I don’t know if I have the right to do that.”

  “I chose to leave them, Colonel Brandon. So I can bring them to a better life.”

  “Which you can still do. And I’ll do all I can to help you. But for now—what was your original intent?”

  “To stay with family. In Great Salt Lake City, until the spring.”

  “Perhaps, then, that would be best after all.”

  I thought of Rachel’s home. I’d never felt unwelcome there, and surely if I came to her—wounded and cold—she would willingly give me refuge. Surely her home would be a greater source of creature comfort than this primitive encampment, and Nathan might consider my residence there
less of a betrayal than my remaining a willing prisoner of Brigham Young’s enemy. It seemed I had no recourse to argue. Colonel Brandon looked every bit a man settled in his thoughts, and beyond the fact that I’d grown comfortable, I could come up with no compelling reason to stay.

  “Well then,” I said, attempting to inject some light into the graying room, “I’ll have to insist that you give me my shoes.”

  * * *

  I did, in fact, get my shoes back, but days of inactivity had swollen my feet so that tying the laces proved more cumbersome than I could have imagined. I was red-faced with the effort when Private Lambert came to my door.

  “Can’t leave today, ma’am. Storm’s on the horizon.”

  For two solid days it snowed. Grateful for the reprieve, I tried to gather my thoughts, deciding just what I would say to Rachel and Tillman upon my arrival on their doorstep.

  Rachel was more than Nathan’s sister. Though a year younger, she was his fierce protector, and in some ways the bond between them rivaled that between Nathan and me. Both were fiercely protective of each other. It was Nathan who’d joined Joseph Smith’s church first, bringing his beloved sister to join him soon after. He’d arranged a marriage with a strong, prominent man—the imposing Tillman Crane—who’d promptly filled his spacious home with wife after wife. Four, in fact. The rooms teemed with women and children, and here I was set to add myself to the mix.

  If they’d have me.

  The hospitality of Rachel and Tillman was nothing new for our family. In fact, Nathan had encouraged such visits before, hoping I would see the domestic beauty of plural marriage. The sisterhood. The camaraderie. The preview of heaven on earth. But there was a canyon of difference between being a guest and a refugee. As gracious as he might be to his first wife’s family, Tillman’s loyalty belonged to the church. After all, we had done nothing to line his pockets.

  I knew the morning I woke up to sunshine flooding through my tiny window would be my last in this room. Without waiting for confirmation, I broke the thin layer of ice in my washbasin and splashed my face with the frigid water beneath. Nathan had always said this was his favorite part of any day. He never heated his wash water, claiming the chill of it wakened the blood within. I felt my blood awakened that morning, though my hand ached terribly at the base of my missing fingers.