Forsaking All Others (28 page)

“The will was last updated six months ago. Just after Mr. Deardon’s health took a turn for the worse.” He now gave a look across the table to Mama that almost endeared him. “From the sale of the farm, if the final price allows, he wants five hundred dollars to go to you directly, Camilla, and one hundred dollars to any grandchildren known or unknown.”

“Oh my.” Once again my hands twisted upon themselves. I looked at Mama. “Did he know?”

She shook her head. “We always hoped, from the day you left nearly, that you’d come back.”

“But with children?”

“Left that up to God, of course,” Mama said. “We just wanted our own child home.”

Mr. Bostwick took a pinch of muffin and pointed at my stomach. “Looks like you’ve got a hundred-dollar bun in that oven.”

In other circumstances, his familiarity might have been taken for impropriety at best and lasciviousness at worst. But I merely gave myself a pat. “So it would seem.”

Mr. Bostwick scrutinized the document in front of him. “It appears Mr. Deardon was quite clear that this money is to go to you, Camilla. And your children, should you have any. Set up in a trust in your name so your husband would be excluded.” He looked at me over the rim of his glasses. “Is there a husband?”

“I am married, yes. And I have two daughters. Papa didn’t know, exactly, about the children. And my husband . . . well, he doesn’t know about any of this.”

This brought a new posture to Mr. Bostwick. He sat up straighter and addressed me with almost-protective attention. “Do you mean he has abandoned you?”

“I have left my husband.”

“Divorced?”

“No.”

“Intend to divorce?”

“As the Lord leads, Mr. Bostwick. I cannot make any decisions outside of his guidance.”

“Of course, of course. Couldn’t have it any other way. Now—” he looked about the room, even under the table—“these children?”

“They are in Utah. With their father.”

“And are we waiting to see what the Lord has to say about that?”

“No.” I reached across the table and took Mama’s hand. “Of that I have no question. I need to bring them here.”

“Well, then.” He brightened, then dug into his leather satchel and produced a pad of paper and a small box containing an inkwell and pen. “I think it’s a good thing you met a lawyer today.”

“There’s one other thing. The circumstances under which I left were . . . unusual. It’s likely that my husband believes me to be dead, and it’s certain he knows nothing of the child I’m carrying now.”

“So the first order of business will be to convince the man that you’re alive? Not to worry, my girl. I wouldn’t be much of a lawyer if I couldn’t do that.”

“But not just yet,” I said, willing his pen to stop in midair. “I don’t want him to come and fetch me home.”

Chapter 23

Strange how, with just a few words on a page, a few strokes of a pen, my life took on a shape I never would have envisioned. Mama and I spent the rest of that summer giving life to those words.

We sold the dairy farm, though the new owners allowed us to continue to live there while we hired men to build a new house for us on the land at the edge of town. Twice a day, in the cool of the morning and evening, Mama and I walked to what would be our new home—not only to measure the progress but for our own general health. Mama had spent months taking care of Papa, and the freedom to simply walk out of the house for an undetermined errand was one she hadn’t enjoyed when he was healthy and alive. We would walk and talk, my body growing stronger with each step, while the words we exchanged bonded together and grew to fill a longing I’d never before recognized. I’d grown up without her. True, my mother was in our home all my childhood years, but moments like those we now shared had been nonexistent.

I didn’t intend to enter a summerlong correspondence, but when I wrote to tell Colonel Brandon of my father’s passing, he responded with such sympathy I felt compelled to write again, reassuring him of our restored state. With each letter he expressed more and more interest in the progress of our new home and the sale of our old one. Soon those details became too mundane even for me. Abandoning my journal, I wrote to him of some of the smallest things, like finding a beautiful pair of silk shoes in the back of Mama’s armoire, though, as I wrote,
“when either of us will ever have the opportunity to wear them remains a mystery.”

In every letter, Colonel Brandon inquired of my health, to which I answered,
“I am very tired much of the time, doing little more than cook and eat and nap between walks with Mama. I both hate and love to sleep because my dreams are filled with Lottie and Melissa. I see them and hear them, and for those hours they are as close to me as the child I carry.”

I awoke from such a dream one afternoon and walked into the kitchen to find Mr. Bostwick at our table with his usual folio of papers scattered about. His presence was not unusual, as he always seemed to have one trivial legal matter or another that warranted an invitation for Sunday dinner or Tuesday supper or Friday evening pie. I met this visit with an unusual pang, however, as it was the first time I hadn’t greeted him at the door to usher him in like any other guest. He was simply
here
, at our table, with Mama bustling about offering fresh cream for his cobbler. Only the smattering of documents made this anything other than a family gathering, as it seemed clear I was the only one not at ease.

“Darling,” Mama said, “I was just about to wake you. Mr. Bostwick has some good news.”

The man’s eyes were closed in an expression of pure enjoyment as blueberry cobbler and cream trickled from the corner of his mouth to be caught expertly by his handkerchief lest it stain his expensive suit.

I smiled despite myself, wondering what his esteemed colleagues would think of the sight. “Does he?”

He opened his eyes and looked at me. “Indeed.” With obvious regret he laid his fork to rest on the plate. “I’ve been in contact with a judge in Salt Lake City, and there should be no impediment to your success in suing for divorce and gaining custody of your children.” He offered a wink to my ever-expanding stomach. “
All
of them.”

“Well . . . ,” I said. It was, of course, the freedom I had longed for, but to hear it condensed into such simple, legal terms belied the hidden complexities. “You make it sound so easy.”

“With Brigham Young no longer in political power, it is. The new governor is quite sympathetic to the cases of the polygamous wives, calling the legitimacy of their unions into question.”

“But I’m a first wife. Legal in every respect.”

Mr. Bostwick waved me off, giving in to the lure of the cobbler and forking another bite into his mouth. He spoke and chewed at the same time. “Giving you the claim of adultery and alienation. A few days in court, a few weeks to process, and you and your daughters could be back here before the first snow.”

“Back?” Mama set a small plate of bread and butter and cheese in front of me—my customary afternoon snack. “What do you mean
back
? She’s not going anywhere.”

“Mama, if it means getting my girls—”

“What it means is having that baby out in the middle of nowhere.”

“The baby’s not due until November. We could be back by then. Isn’t that what you said, Mr. Bostwick?”

“With a private stage and ideal proceedings, yes.” Though, in light of my mother’s scrutiny, he seemed far less convinced.

“Just what do you mean by
ideal
?” Mama might not have been an educated woman, but this question was not asked in ignorance. She joined us at the table but kept her eyes trained on me as Mr. Bostwick gave his answer.

“Given that Mr. Fox does not protest the divorce.”

“You said I had legal grounds.”

“You do. But the wonderful thing about the law, my girl, is that there are two sides to every story. Still, I’m certain we’ll prevail.”

“Even if she’s standing right there? Belly full of his child?”

Mama’s bluntness took me aback, but I was even more struck by her intuition. My mother had never met Nathan Fox, yet she seemed to possess an understanding of him that, in this instance, far exceeded my own.

“She’s right,” I whispered, barely loud enough to break through Mr. Bostwick’s legal rebuttal. “This child might be a son. He’d never give that up without a fight.”

Mr. Bostwick’s volume took our kitchen for a courtroom. “Does he not have that other woman to give him sons?”

“He doesn’t love that other woman,” Mama said with a gentleness that seemed to deflate the man’s bluster.

“Well, then—” Mr. Bostwick began to listlessly shuffle his papers—“I suppose I shall go on my own and file the case on your behalf. Truly, your presence is only a formality. I daresay I shall be no temptation for the lovelorn Mr. Fox. And I’ve no legal obligation to disclose the details of your delicate condition.”

Mama looked triumphant, but I could not share in her victory. “What about my daughters?”

“I will establish proof that you have a home and means of support. Your absence will not alter the fact that you have every right to gain custody.”

“But how—?”

His square, heavy hand patted mine in a gesture I’m sure was meant to be reassuring. “I’ll bring them to you safe and sound; rest easy.”

I looked at Mr. Bostwick through the eyes of my daughters. To me, yes, he was growing to be a familiar fixture in my home, his loud voice and long speeches resting on the shore of endearing. I could see the protective nature behind his bravado, and the barrel-like body beneath his ornate vest denoted strength as much as a healthy appetite. But to Lottie and Melissa, he’d be nothing more than a stranger—a large, imposing, unknown man taking them away from their beloved father to the vague promise of a mother they’d probably been told was dead. All very legal, all very proper, but nonetheless terrifying.

“We’ll wait,” I said, hating the very words in my mouth.

Mr. Bostwick seemed ready to take the stand when Mama, with nothing more than a gentle nudge of his cobbler plate, kept him silent.

“This is my daughter’s decision. And I know how much it pains her.”

“In the spring.” I nearly choked on the familiar-sounding promise. “One more winter, and we’ll leave in the spring.”

“And just what,” Mr. Bostwick said, heedless of his condescension, “would you like me to do until then?”

“Nothing.” I tore off a corner of my bread, then set it back on my plate. “Nothing at all.”

* * *

By the first of August, our new home was ready, and having allowed the women of the church to sweep all the floors and clean the windows, Mama and I drove our farm wagon, laden with all our earthly possessions, for the last time. Over the course of a morning, the heart of our old home became that of the new. The furniture arranged in a sunny front parlor, the table in the kitchen at the back.

“It’ll be so nice to receive visitors at the front of the house,” Mama said.

I can recall throughout my childhood half a dozen times we ever had ladies come to call in the morning. What farmer’s wife had time for such socializing? Since my arrival our visitors were numerous and frequent, bringing a new interest in friendship thinly veiled in curiosity. After all, my condition could no longer be concealed, and the veiled looks I garnered whenever I went into town had grown into full stares. Then, through the guise of inquiring as to my health, the questions began.

I told only enough to sate them. That I had married, that indeed my husband had sought to take a second wife, and that I hoped to bring my daughters here to live. I shared, too, the story of being lost in the storm and my rescue, for that gave me an opportunity to be a witness for God’s miraculous care. But I told nothing of my fears, the assumption of my death, the threat of atoning for my sins with the shedding of my own blood. Our town was far enough north of Kanesville to be free of the Mormons’ constant encampment, but close enough to come into contact with them frequently. My father’s fear and mistrust had driven me away; I would do nothing to fuel more of the same.

Our house was a spacious, two-storied structure, but as the baby grew, climbing the stairs became an uncomfortable chore, and I knew it would soon become prohibitively cumbersome. We had a bedroom downstairs that was to be Mama’s, hoping the children and I would occupy the three upstairs, but she insisted that until the baby was born, I should take the first-floor bedroom.

That first night in our new home, the minute I hit the ticking, the baby sprang to life, rolling and twisting within me with such exuberance I feared I’d never get to sleep. I put my hand on my stomach and sensed the movement beneath my palm.

Tears sprang to my eyes as I remembered sharing our unborn babies’ movements with Nathan. We’d lie in bed, his hands covering the width of me, and I’d see his eyes light up in perfect synchronization with the baby’s kicking.

“She’s dancing like she did in heaven,” he’d said of our Melissa. I remember marveling at both his prediction that she’d be a girl and the idea that she’d already lived an entire life before being born. Nathan was unshakingly convinced of both, and he’d captured me in his predictions.

But not with this child.

I knew beyond knowing that this child had no life before Nathan and I created it. And more than with any other of my children, I had no sense of its gender. I hadn’t even allowed myself to picture its birth, its life. As much as I might miss those sweet, warm moments sharing the growth of a child within me with its father, I relished this selfishness. For the next few months, this baby was mine alone. New life, yes, but life dependent on me, unlike my daughters, who thrived under another woman’s care; unlike my son, who hadn’t thrived at all.

In essence, that night it was my child who rocked me to sleep as my prayers of gratitude drifted into dreams.

Chapter 24

Mama spent one night in a bare room upstairs, sleeping beneath the moonlit breeze, and the next night she was downstairs with me, lying side by side, whispering about all that we’d missed in each other’s lives. Exactly why we whispered, I don’t know. There was certainly nobody to disturb, even though we did have the comfort of a neighbor in view. Most nights, at least once, something would set us to laughter.