The Sister Wife (9 page)

Brigham moved his gaze to Griffin, who had been quietly watching the apostle from his station by the serving table. “This young man from Wales will be heading up a special platoon of this new militia. My son, the Prophet will bless you mightily for your service. Already, I have written to him of your leadership skills, and your arrival is greatly anticipated by all the Saints.”

Griffin inclined his head. “Thank you,” he said simply, but Gabe noticed a passion of purpose shone in the young man's eyes, which Gabe understood.

The captain leaned forward, his forearms on the table, his expression keen with interest. “Exactly who are these Gentiles you speak of? It's my understanding that the term means anyone who is not Jewish.”

“Not according to the new revelations from God. A Gentile is anyone who doesn't adhere to our faith, is not a member of the one and true Church that God has reestablished on earth.”

Gabe frowned, wondering at the statement. “There is only one true Church?”

Brigham surprised him by laughing. “I know what you're thinking—the same thing I did when I first heard Joseph make the claim. Every church thinks they're the only one true Church.” He chuckled again. “But Joseph's story is one that he's looking forward to telling you himself. And I've dominated the conversation much too long anyway.” He shot Gabe a disarming smile.

It took Gabe another few minutes to realize Brigham hadn't answered his question.

Persecution? Raids on farms? Chasing women and children to frighten or even kill seemingly for sport? A private militia? Gabe turned to the woman at his side. She and her grandfather, titled, wealthy, familiar only with a life where others saw to their needs, were heading into dangerous territory, perhaps to face the same
fate that had befallen the Mormons in Kirtland and Far West. Smith had moved his followers to a place he thought was safe, but if Gabe understood Brigham Young's brief history lesson, the group had been run out—worse, burned and tortured and chased—from their two previous promised lands. What was to prevent it from happening again?

He had the urge to take her hand and lead her away from Brigham, convince her of the danger they would be in. He would lead her grandfather away from danger too, if he would go.

“As for me,” the earl said from the end of the table, “I'm happy to count myself among the Saints.” His round face stretched into a wide smile. “I believe in the frontier spirit, especially a fired-up frontier spirit, which I believe they—let me correct that—
we
have in abundance. And I believe in the witness of our Prophet, Joseph Smith. I felt the burning in my soul as I read the Book of Mormon.” He lifted his goblet and sipped the Madeira before continuing. “I always wondered why there was no written record of the Americas in the Bible. And now, in my old age, I finally found out that Jesus Christ himself appeared there during the three days everyone thought he was in the grave. And to think of those gold plates…right there in America, waiting to be found.”

He sat back and folded his hands over his rotund stomach. “Finding the truth about this in my old age pleases me immensely.” His eyes glistened as he looked at each one seated around the table. “Not just finding the one true religion at last, one that resonates in my very soul, but also finding other followers of this truth, followers of the Prophet whom God chose to translate his word in these latter days.”

He paused, his gaze resting on Lady Mary Rose. “And perhaps best of all, the Saints…” Gabe could see great love for his granddaughter in his expression. “The Saints take care of their own, come feast or famine, or, God forbid, worse. After what they've
been through, they know the worst better than most. Among all churches of the world, it's that pioneer spirit that draws me.”

“After all we've learned tonight, my spirit is telling me it might be wise to sail back to England and our home,” Lady Mary Rose said. Her tone was dinner-party lighthearted, but Gabe sensed her grandfather hadn't heard the last of it.

“Dear, there is no going back once I've made up my mind. You know that.”

She tilted her chin and gave him a little smile. “We'll see,” she said and took a dainty sip of Madeira.

At once the conversation seemed to erupt into questions—all directed to Brigham—about the Saints' travels west, the gold plates, the lost tribe of Israel, or the angel Moroni's visit to the boy Joseph Smith.

Gabe sat back with relief. Maybe no one else cared, but at least one of the Ashleys seemed to be aware of the dangers ahead—and not just the romance of the Wild West and its wild religions. Maybe they would turn back. Though he wondered how much sway Lady Mary Rose had over the earl. It appeared to him that if the Earl of Salisbury wanted to start a new life with the Saints in America, there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.

As if sensing that she was in his thoughts, Lady Mary Rose turned to watch him with a concentration that could mine the ocean's depths, and, he wanted to believe, the depths of his soul too. And if her eyes didn't lie—and he could not conceive that someone with such purity and sweetness and lack of guile could allow them to veil the truth—he realized she was as great a skeptic as he. He couldn't help but smile.

Her eyes widened and she gave him an answering smile. It seemed she read his mind as well. And his skepticism.

Before Gabe took his first sip of coffee, Lady Mary Rose whispered behind her hand, “I don't know about you, but I believe I've had about enough of all this. I need some air. I'm going for a
stroll on the deck.” As she laced the strings of her reticule over her dainty wrist, Gabe stood to pull back her chair, and within seconds she had skirted her way to the captain and expressed her gratitude for the lovely supper.

She reached the captain's door, halted, and with that smile he was starting to enjoy immensely, cast a glance in Gabe's direction, then stepped from the captain's dining room.

Gabe shook hands with the captain, said he would see him on the quarterdeck later, and started for the door.

Just as he opened it, Brigham said to the earl, his voice loud enough for all to overhear, “It's time to tell your granddaughter the truth about why you can't return home.”

M
ary Rose drew in deep breaths of the crisp night air, thinking about the man who'd been seated next to her at supper. Something about his eyes—their unfathomable spirit and intelligence—had captured her attention from the first moment they met on the Liverpool wharf. And now those same gray-green eyes threatened to capture her heart.

She strolled along the deck near the rail to the ship's bow, looking out at the dark sea. She thought about the life she and her grandfather had left behind, the new world that awaited them.

A sudden north wind kicked up, ruffling her hair. She shivered, and returned to her cabin to fetch her cape. Even before she opened the door, she heard the murmuring of voices and the sound of soft laughter. She found that the twins were fast asleep, and the laughter came from Griffin and Coal, who sat at the table with Bronwyn. She was regaling them with a story the twins had made up about Oscar the Lobster.

A game of chess had been set out on the table, and from the
position of the board, it appeared that Griffin was about to teach Coal how to play.

Bronwyn and Griffin both stood as Mary Rose entered the room. “Is everything all right, m'lady?” Bronwyn peered anxiously into Mary Rose's face.

“Yes, of course, why do you ask?”

Though her question was directed to Bronwyn, it was her husband who answered. He glanced at Coal, now busily playing with the chess pieces, and dropped his voice. “Shortly after you'd left the captain's table, Brother Brigham stood rather abruptly and said he needed to speak with you. It sounded very important, almost dire.”

Mary Rose frowned as she reached for her fur-trimmed cape, which Bronwyn had thoughtfully hooked over a coat tree near the door. Griffin stepped forward to help her place it around her shoulders.

“I've noticed that Brother Brigham often sounds dire,” she said with a small laugh.

Bronwyn and Griffin exchanged a look and didn't laugh with her. “It was his tone,” Bronwyn said, “and what Brother Brigham said to your grandfather after you left.”

Griffin gave her a scolding look. “You're carrying tales, my love,” he said, his voice still low enough not to be overheard. “When I told you what he'd said, my words were meant for your ears only.”

“M'lady is my friend,” Bronwyn said, casting a shy glance at Mary Rose.

“'Tis true,” Mary Rose confirmed, shooting Bronwyn a conspiratorial smile. “We are indeed friends.”

Bronwyn lifted her chin slightly and gave her husband a look that said, “I told you so.” Then she turned again to Mary Rose. “He said it was time for you to know the truth.”

Mary Rose felt the sting of tears at the back of her throat. “I knew it.”

Bronwyn slipped into the chair on her other side.

“Did he say anything more?” she asked Griffin.

“I'm sorry,” Griffin said. “That's all I know.”

She stood, gathering her reticule and pulling her cape closer. “Is my grandfather in his quarters?”

“Yes, m'lady.” Griffin inclined his head toward her. “He seemed overly tired from the dinner party. He may be asleep.”

Mary Rose hesitated. “Then it's Brother Brigham I must find to get to the heart of his meaning. 'Tis not right to cause anxiety in any of us with such a statement.” She met Bronwyn's gaze. “Do you mind watching the children a little longer?” She looked down at Coal's pleading expression and smiled. “Coal can return to Grandfather's cabin for bed when I return. It appears a game of chess is about to commence.”

Coal grinned his thanks.

Bronwyn shook her head, though Mary Rose noticed her face looked unusually swollen, and lines around her eyes were more pronounced. “No, m'lady.”

Mary Rose crossed the room to stand in front of her friend. She reached for her hand. “This is a direct order and I want you to promise me you will carry it out exactly as I say.”

“Yes, m'lady.” She would have curtsied if Mary Rose hadn't held tight to her hand.

Mary Rose looked to Griffin. “And after I walk from the room, if your dear wife has other ideas, you must remind her of my order.”

He inclined his head. “Yes, m'lady.”

“Bronwyn, you are to go immediately to your cabin and prepare yourself for a bath that I will order from the steward.”

Bronwyn looked up in surprise, the hint of a smile curving the corners of her mouth. Mary Rose crossed the room to her bed, reached for a small case beneath it, pulled out an unopened packet of lily soap, and returned to place it in Bronwyn's hands.

“And then I want you to go directly to bed and sleep as long as you like tomorrow—” Bronwyn started to protest, but Mary Rose raised an eyebrow in mock warning and continued. “Remember, this is a direct order. You are not to come for the twins to allow me to sleep longer. You are the one who needs your rest.”

Bronwyn again tried to protest. This time Mary Rose held up her hand. “I'm not through.” She turned to Griffin. “You don't mind staying here to give your wife some quiet time alone, and to keep this little ruffian out of trouble”—she ruffled Coal's hair and he grinned—“until I return?”

“It's the best order I could hear or receive,” Griffin said, his voice and expression reflecting his relief on behalf of his wife.

“Thank you, m'lady,” Bronwyn said, this time finally managing a small curtsy.

Mary Rose let out an exasperated sigh. “I have one more order that you must obey, that I beg you to obey.”

The young couple glanced at each other, their curiosity evident, then looked back to Mary Rose. “Please, I beg you, and utterly and completely and without reservation implore you, never to call me m'lady again. And please do not ever bow or curtsy or tilt your head or anything else indicating that I'm somehow your superior, because I am not.”

This time when Bronwyn met her husband's gaze, she giggled, and Mary Rose saw loving merriment in his eyes as he took in his wife. He went over and wrapped his arms around her. “I told you so,” Bronwyn said, looking up at him adoringly. “We're friends.”

She left her husband's embrace and turned to Mary Rose. “I've needed a friend,” she murmured.

“So have I,” Mary Rose said, smiling into her eyes.

 

Though the hour was growing late, a few passengers remained on the deck, some strolling, other conversing in groups, their voices mostly lost in the wind, the snap of the billowing sails, and clinks
of the rigging against the masts. Just as when she was on deck earlier, the watch seamen were at their stations, some inspecting the ropes, others manning the sails.

Mary Rose searched the length of the deck, both fore and aft, and then back again, keeping a watchful eye out for Brigham. When she reached the bow the second time, she stopped to consider where she might find him. It wouldn't be seemly to try his cabin, or even the gentlemen's smoking lounge, yet it was imperative she find out what he meant about telling her the truth.

She turned to face the bow. The wind ruffled her hair, and she felt the curls that Bronwyn had worked so hard to tame pull loose. She wrapped her cape tighter. Even so, she shivered in the chilly air.

She placed her hands on the rail and closed her eyes, letting her senses take over her worries about his “truth” statement: the scent of the sea air, the great speed and forward movement, the flaps and snaps of the multitude of billowing sails above her. Then she raised her eyes to the sky with its thousands of pinpoints of dazzling light and waited for a rush of emotion to fill her. Waited for the beauty of the night to become too great to contain, for the sweetness of the moment to soothe her heart.

It didn't happen. The sound of footsteps, unmistakably American boot-clad footsteps on the wooden deck, filled her senses instead.

Brigham came to stand beside her. “I've witnessed through your words and actions that you are not convinced your grandfather made the right decision to move to Nauvoo—and to bring you with him.” The apostle seemed to be watching her with deep intensity, though it was difficult to tell in the pale starlight.

“Is that the truth you had to tell me?” she countered.

“No,” he said without elaborating.

She let silence fall between them, and didn't hurry to fill it.

Finally, he continued. “It has to do with why your grandfather made the decision.”

“That's no secret,” she said. “He's been enamored with America's western frontier for years. Living in such a place, sharing a new, uniquely American frontier religion, appealed to him.”

“You mention nothing about his decision to follow the revelations of the Prophet.”

“I'm quite certain that if the same religion had been born in England, he wouldn't have given it a second look.”

Brigham turned to look out to sea, the wind lifting his shoulder-length hair.

Without his asking the obvious, she went on: “I have to admit I don't feel as passionately as my grandfather does about going to Nauvoo, or about the Saints or God's role in this new church. Or mine, for that matter.”

Above them the sails snapped and the ship rocked and swayed with the movement of the current. The breeze stung her face and made her eyes water.

“God is with you and your grandfather. There will be times of questioning, that's only natural, but you must trust God's chosen Prophet. Trust that what I and what others have witnessed is God's holy truth. That your grandfather has made the right decisions.”

She narrowed her eyes as she looked up at him. “You said decisions?”

“Yes, decisions that weren't easy, any of them.”

“Now you're finally getting to the truth you told the others that I need to know.”

He studied her for several moments before speaking again. “You are an independent young woman, and that is commendable. But your grandfather made decisions about your future that you need to honor.”

“We made the decision to sail to America together,” Mary Rose
said. “I knew how badly he wanted to see the Wild West one last time, and when he brought it up, I thought it seemed a grand adventure.”

“A grand adventure? Has your commitment to the Saints, to our Prophet meant so little to you as that?”

“Perhaps I've been too frank, but I've made no secret about my doubts. I was put off by your announcement to the captain's guests after I left the dinner party—an announcement in which you said I needed to know the ‘truth.'” She pressed her lips together and took a deep breath before continuing. “I am unused to the public airing of what is, I'm certain, a private matter, something that should remain between my grandfather and me.”

“I've known from the beginning that for your grandfather this was a permanent move. I've also sensed that you thought you'd let him have his way for a while, look over our town, our Nauvoo, our way of life, and if it doesn't suit you, you'd merely tell your grandfather that it's time to go home. Just as you indicated tonight.”

“I have held to that comfort. If Nauvoo doesn't work out for us, we'll make our way home.”

“Now we're getting nearer to the truth you need to hear.”

She lifted her chin and tilted her head, giving him a practiced patrician look she saved for suitable occasions. “I suppose you're about to tell me Grandfather signed away our lives to the Saints”—she laughed—“and that we'll not be allowed to leave Nauvoo for the rest of our days.”

“No, no,” he said, with a quite sober tone. “It's nothing like that. But the truth is, you can't return to Ashley Manor.”

She stared at him wordlessly, her heart pounding. When she finally spoke she fought to keep her voice steady. “And why not?”

“Because the earl signed all of your holdings over to Joseph Smith before your departure.”

She stared at him in utter silence. Finally, she said, “Would you repeat that?”

“Your grandfather gave the estate and everything on it to Joseph Smith.”

Her mind refused to accept the significance of his words. “If you mean he made a gift of some of our vast acreage that makes sense. As to the other, I know my grandfather. He would never turn over our ancestral home to anyone, church, charity, the queen.”

“Your home is with us. It's not a building of stone, no matter how ancient, no matter how many generations have lived there. Even the grounds, the gardens, are temporal. Your real home, that which is on earth, is building the kingdom of God, building up treasures in heaven by your work here…” His voice remained low and urgent, yet strangely quiet as if he were calming a troubled child.

“You've been toying with a new religion, not totally committed, yet not against it. The time will come when you need to stand either with us or against us, and that ‘us' may very well include your grandfather.”

“You are wrong,” she said, “about my grandfather and me. But that is not what is important right now. Right now, I need to see if the wrong that has been done to him can be undone.” She started to leave, but Brigham stepped in front of her.

“You need to hear me out.”

“I've heard enough.”

He spoke as if she hadn't uttered a word. “You will soon see,” he continued, “that once you make the decision to give your all to the teachings of the Prophet and to obey to the uttermost his revelations from God, a strange and wondrous peace will fill your heart.” He paused. “When that happens you will never look back. You will not want to look back. You will no longer yearn for your childhood home.”

He stepped closer to her, the same sense of urgency in his voice. “Think of the angel that appeared to a simple, humble man,
telling him God had a plan for his people…that after all these hundreds, yea, thousands of years, the God who spoke to Moses in the burning bush, the God who gave the Israelites the Ten Commandments, wasn't through with his people. His angels still appear, as the visitation of Moroni proves; he still draws those to himself who are worthy to be counted among his people.”