Forsaking All Others (31 page)

Chapter 26

December 9, 1858

Dear Colonel Brandon,

How wonderful to hear that you will be able to spend Christmas with your son. And to travel by train—how I long to do so someday. Why, there were moments when riding the stage felt like absolute flight! It is hard for me to even imagine what it would feel like to ride on a train. Please give my regards to Robert. Though I have not met him, I’ve heard you speak of him so often, I feel almost as if we are long-lost friends.

To this, I add what must be much-anticipated news for you. I, too, will be spending Christmas with my own son, as he was born to me just a few nights ago. He and I are both feeling well, though we match each other for hours slept throughout the day. I confess that when I look into his face, I see his father’s features, but I have you to thank for his safe birth here in this place. I have learned that the passion of youth can fade, but I do hope that our friendship will transcend such erosion, and it is in that light that I gave my son the name of Charles. It is a strong name, shared by a man whose strength may well have saved my life. I hope I have not imposed too much.

Now, to your journey. Mama, I fear, will be disappointed. I was under strict orders to invite you to join us for Christmas supper in my next letter. . . .

It would be my first Christmas away from my daughters, and throughout the season of Advent, I prayed it would be the last. This year, however, I devoted myself to creating gifts to lavish them with when we were reunited. For Melissa I made her own apron, as she was always busy about the kitchen helping me or Kimana. I’d become quite adept at all sorts of needlework despite my handicap, and I embroidered a scene of frolicking kittens on each of the apron pockets. For Lottie I painted a simple bouquet of flowers on a piece of canvas to be stretched over a ring and serve as her first attempt at stitching. She’d need only follow the painted lines with the different colored silk thread, and in the end she’d have something far more beautiful than a simple alphabet. Of course, I also knit each of them a new pair of mittens and a matching scarf, though I’d not yet decided on what fashion of hat each would like.

“You’re planning to spoil those girls,” Mama said. It was two days past Christmas, and she was newly returned from town. Snow created lace on the other side of the window and blew in with a halfhearted flurry before she could close the door behind her.

“It keeps me busy.”

“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 fallen 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,