Forsaking All Others (32 page)

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 tomorrow 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.

“I am thankful enough to have a home and the comfortable living God has provided,” I’d said. “I’ll not boast of having more.”

The second, smaller trunk was full of things for the girls. Two new dresses apiece and thin, dark canvas riding coats to protect them from the inescapable dust. I also had two small, soft down pillows and one of Mama’s older quilts to help keep them comfortable both during the ride and in whatever overnight stopping places we would encounter. At Mama’s suggestion, I’d refrained from bringing them any new dolls or toys.

“They might want to bring something more familiar from home,” she’d said, and I marveled that there was ever a time in my life when I’d disregarded her counsel.

Within fifteen minutes Mr. Bostwick had procured a young man—maybe fifteen years old—with a shock of yellow-blond hair feathering out from beneath a black knit cap. He had a team of slow-moving horses pulling a flatbed wagon and agreed to take us and our luggage to the hotel for whatever amount Mr. Bostwick had folded into his palm. Mr. Bostwick rode in the back of the wagon after I had been handed up to the springy seat next to the boy.

“First time in the city?”

“No.” Fortunately, the chilliness in my voice discouraged further conversation.

We rolled through the streets at such an excruciatingly slow pace, the horses might have been hauling a temple stone rather than our modest party. The boy himself slumped and sloped at the reins, his head bobbing in rhythm to the horses’ rumps.

Though I’d been gone for just over a year, the change that had been wrought on the city was obvious, even at this late hour. Maybe it was a matter of season. We were, after all, quick on the heels of winter, without having given spring much of a chance to take hold. Everything looked damp, unkempt. Not exactly lifeless, but lacking the vibrancy I’d known this city to have.

I held my breath as we turned onto Temple because I knew we would soon be taking a slow pass in front of Rachel and Tillman’s home. At this hour, the children would all surely be in bed, but I fully expected to see the downstairs windows full of blazing light as she and her sister wives gathered in the parlor to read or sew. I craned my neck but saw only utter darkness lining the street.

Turning in my seat, I asked Mr. Bostwick the time, as it must have been later than I imagined.

“Not quite ten.”

“And everybody packed up in bed?”

“Everybody packed up and gone,” the boy said.

Fear collided with the cool evening air, turning my blood into winter ice. “Gone? Where?”

He shrugged. “South, mostly. Order of the prophet. Pretty soon this place is going to be running over with Gentiles.” He glanced my way. “No offense, ma’am, if you are one.”

“What has that to do with anything?”

“Don’t want to let them all profit on what Heavenly Father gave to us. Wouldn’t do—”

“Stop,” I said. We were right in front of Rachel’s home, and there wasn’t a spark of light to be seen. Without waiting for any assistance, I climbed down from the wagon seat and walked through the front gate, straight up to the front door. Somewhere behind me, Mr. Bostwick was calling my name in a strained whisper, but I paid him no mind. Acting against logic, I knocked on the front door, then pounded, calling, “Rachel! Tillman?”

Soon I felt a comforting hand on my shoulder and heard Mr. Bostwick gently, quietly leading me away.

“Camilla, my dear. The windows—they’re boarded up. There’s nobody here. We don’t want to call undue attention to ourselves.”

Looking up and down the street, I wondered just whose attention we would attract, as there didn’t seem to be anybody in any of the houses. Still, I allowed him to lead me down the front steps and back toward the wagon.

“It doesn’t make sense.” I spoke in a hushed tone straight into the sleeve of his jacket.

“Oh, but it does. Brigham Young feels he’s lost a war. This is his way of leaving a scorched earth to the enemy.”

“But how could he make them abandon their home?”

“You are much more acquainted with the power of his influence than I.”

The thought I’d been too terrified to speak until now came to the surface. “What if Nathan is gone?” I clutched his sleeve, panic rising. “I’ll have no idea where my girls are.”

“How long is the drive to your home?”

“Half a day.”

“We’ll leave at first light.”

By now we were back at the wagon, where our driver looked on in unconcealed curiosity. “You know the folks who lived here?”

“Yes.” I refused to say more.

“What’s your name, son?” Mr. Bostwick asked as he helped me back into my seat.

“Seth Linden, sir.”

“Tell me, Seth, where can I hire a rig to drive us to Cottonwood Canyon tomorrow?”

He scrunched his face. “My pa’s got a brand-new runabout, but tomorrow’s the Sabbath, sir. He won’t do business with you. Won’t nobody.”

Mr. Bostwick got back in the wagon with what I thought was admirable flexibility for a man his age. This time, though, he didn’t dangle his legs over the back edge. Instead, he scooted one of the trunks clear up to the driver’s seat and sat on it. Seth clicked to the horses, and as they began their task anew, Mr. Bostwick leaned forward and said, “Trust me, young man. I’ll find somebody to do business with tomorrow.”

“Nope. Not in this town.”

“What is your father’s rate?”

Seth gave a quick glance backward. “Two dollars a day.”

All of a sudden, Mr. Bostwick’s arm appeared between us, palm up, a small pile of coins stacked in the center. “Perhaps we can do the transaction tonight, then. And you can deliver the buggy first thing in the morning, long before you’re due in church.”

The boy eyed the money. “That’s too much, sir.”

“I might need it for two days.”

“Pa will have my hide promisin’ business on a Sunday.”

“Or he’ll think you an enterprising young man indeed for knowing enough to conduct the business tonight.”

A few more seconds’ thought, and the coins were dropped in a small pocket on the front of Seth’s vest. “You want a one-horse or a two-horse team?”

“Two horses,” Mr. Bostwick said. “And I’ll need them delivered before dawn.”

* * *

The Hotel Deseret was a plain, square, three-story structure that occupied a corner lot. The sign above the door read, “For Businessmen Who Need a Home in Our Great City.” Mr. Bostwick gave Seth another nickel to lift our trunks down from the wagon and carry them into the front room of the establishment.

We walked in to find a large room with several tables scattered about, each occupied by one or more gentlemen reading newspapers or engaging in conversation. To the far left was a long oak counter, and behind it a tall, dignified-looking gentleman with coal-black hair and spectacles pinched to the top of his nose. He was writing in an enormous ledger as we approached and continued to do so for several seconds until Mr. Bostwick quietly cleared his throat.

“May I help you?” He looked at me and one eyebrow rose above the rim of his glasses. “Sir?”

“I am Michael Bostwick, an attorney-at-law. I would like to rent two rooms, please.”

“I’m sorry, sir. But we do not allow women to stay at the hotel.”

His implication was clear, and even if it wasn’t, the stares I felt on the back of my neck gave further clarification. My lips twitched with amusement even though my embarrassment felt close to the edge of shame.

“She is my client,” Mr. Bostwick said, then, softly, “and my daughter.”

“I’m sorry, sir. This is an establishment for businessmen, and we insist on not having the distraction of a woman on the premises.”