The Wedding Dress (14 page)

“Oh, dear,” Rebecca murmured, “what'll I do?”

“I'd start by getting just as religious as I could,” Ann continued. “Brother Brigham really took that snippy little teacher from the academy to task when she didn't teach like he wanted her to. He said there was no call for any teacher to show off all she knew about newfangled ideas. He said he was satisfied the Lord gave it to us straight and that she'd better teach it that way or apostatize in a hurry.”

Rebecca shuddered. “I'd be terrified to death if he thundered at me like that, especially right in the meetinghouse.”

The next month, on the first Thursday night, Ann, with Rebecca in tow, attended the fast and testimony meeting. As they faced the biting wind and trudged through snow, Rebecca said, “This wouldn't be nearly so hard to take if we'd filled ourselves with that good rabbit stew before we left.”

“Just you hush; you can have some after meeting. This is good for your soul.”

“Oh, Ann, I hope you're right. I'd expect your chiding me in that motherly voice would do me more good. At least there's rabbit stew this winter, but I don't know whether it's any easier to go without when there is than when there
isn't
.”

“The good Lord willing, we won't go through another winter like that.”

The building held a handful of people, and Rebecca's rumbling stomach advised her that it was a miracle there were that many. Two coal oil lamps brightened the room beyond the glow of the fire. As Rebecca and Ann entered, a woman hurried to them.

“You're new, welcome. We'll be singing and after Brother Ellis leads us in prayer, we'll be bearing our testimony. The Lord bless you.” She disappeared.

“Who is she?” Rebecca whispered.

“Leitha Ellis. That's her husband over by the door.”

The man turned, and his booming voice greeted the people walking in the door. “Well, Brother Eppson, I haven't seen much of you since we left Nauvoo.”

Rebecca eased herself lower on the bench. That ever-present fear had surfaced. Since the day of Matthew and Ebner's planned visitation from the angel, she had dreaded this day. Recalling that childish prank, she admitted her worst dreams were of Bishop Ellis recognizing her.

“Rebecca, pull that shawl away from your head or you'll be in a sweat before we get outside. That means lung fever most certainly.”

Now Brother Ellis turned his back and bent his knees before addressing the Almighty. In the dimness Rebecca saw the round bald spot on his head, and she settled down with a sigh of relief.

After prayer the woman beside Ann jumped to her feet. Waving a black-bound book, she proclaimed her faith. “I believe this is God's Word, I believe Brother Joseph Smith was ordained of God, called to bring, by the gift and power of God, this wonderful work to us. I'd rather be here in this Great Salt Lake City than anywhere else on earth.” She sat down. A bearded gentleman in the rear stood.

“Brothers and sisters, dear Saints and suffering emigrants,” he entoned. Rebecca lost his words in contemplation of his rapt expression and the rhythmic motion of the snowy beard cascading down the front of his dark coat. When he took his place, Rebecca was aware of sobs coming from the woman beside her.

Slowly the woman got to her feet. “I've sinned. I'm ashamed of my harsh tongue and complaining spirit. Brother Williams convicts me so. I've no right to complain under the yoke of the principle. I intend to live my religion.”

“Sister, it's a blessing. Don't look on the hard parts,” the high clear voice rose. “It's God's way of providing salvation for you. Without that good husband and the little ones you have, you'd never progress to being anything other than a servant of us all in the eternity. Brother Brigham says so. Rejoice!”

Rebecca snorted, and Ann's sharp elbow found her ribs. Just then a high sweet sound filled the room. Rebecca strained to hear the words. They eluded understanding; could this be the gift of tongues she had heard about?

In awe she strained to hear, to see more clearly the face lifted and the hands stretched heavenward. Those hands described an arc of enchantment and the face glowed in the lamplight. Now the woman shook her head, and her snowy hair shed its pins and cascaded down her back. The sounds encircled Rebecca, enveloped her. When they finally faded, she was alone, more alone than ever before.

Ann and Rebecca stepped out into the snowy night. The crisp clean air rushed across their faces shocking them to life. In silence they walked homeward.

During the following week, Rebecca found herself recalling the meeting and pondering the significance of it. Try as she might, she couldn't understand, and she yearned to talk over her feelings with someone.

One afternoon Rebecca walked to the fort. When Cora greeted her at the door, she said, “It's warm as spring. Let's bundle the tykes and walk down the street.”

“Rebecca, that street's a mudhole. Joseph would be in to his armpits.”

“I'll carry him.”

When they closed the door behind them, Cora gasped, “Oh, Rebecca, I'm so glad you've come. Another day and I would have gone as stark crazy as Sister Walker.”

In dismay, Rebecca listened to Cora pour forth her woes. Her impatient waiting for a turn to talk was arrested, trampled. It was dawning on her how desperate Cora was. They turned down the street toward the Samuels' cabin.

“Cora, I just don't know what to say,” Rebecca admitted. “Let's talk to Ann. I can't take care of my own problems, and I certainly can't advise you.”

Ann had just put bread into her rock-walled oven. She was heaping coals around the stones as they entered the house. Releasing Joseph and unwinding his shawl, Rebecca said, “Ann, Cora really needs help. That woman is driving her mad.”

Slowly Ann turned. Her placid features crumpled into lines of concern. In a low, miserable voice, Cora said, “It's the principle. Don't let your man go into it.”

“I can't stop him once Brother Brigham puts his finger on him,” Ann said sadly. “But, Cora, much as you women scare me to death talking about the problems, I don't think God meant it to be so. The good Book tells us He'll help us overcome. It's the enemy making this so hard, and it's because it's earning us such glory.”

Tears were sliding down Cora's cheeks, and her hands trembled as she dabbed at them. “I'd forego the glory for a little peace on earth. That woman harps constant when no one's around. I wait on her like I was a slave, but nothing suits her. She keeps the Mister wore out with her whining, and he's changing. It's getting so he's believing the complaints. I can see it in his eyes.”

“There's nothing I can do except pray the Lord will make you stronger.”

The troubled look was still on Ann's face when Cora and Rebecca left to walk back to the fort. Rebecca mused over that expression. Why hadn't Brother Samuels taken another wife? They were saying it was the only way to reach the highest glory.

As they entered Cora's cabin, Rebecca asked, “Do you believe that everyone who isn't in the principle will be just a servant in the hereafter?”

“I wish I didn't have to believe it. But if they say it, it's true.”

Cora eased her sleeping baby into his cradle and turned to Rebecca. Now it was her turn to study Rebecca's face. “You look like you've got something on your mind.”

Rebecca glanced at the impassive figure beside the fire and lowered her voice. “I do. I've been doing lots of thinking, and I wanted to hear how you'd take to my thoughts, but I sure don't want Bessie passing them all around the city.”

“She will, and they'll come out worse than they started,” Cora warned. “Looking at you, I'd guess you're as down as I am. There's no call for that. You're free to go out and have a good time. There's no man and young'uns to pull you back. Rebecca, have a good time. Go to the parties and everything else you can. Let the fellows spark all they want, but put off getting married.”

“That doesn't sound like the last sermon you preached to me. You told me to live my religion.”

“I've changed my mind. There's plenty of time to get married and start working toward earning your glory.”

“There is?” Rebecca questioned. “I can't help thinking about David Fullmister. He didn't have time. He's been cheated out of a chance to earn any glory, if the only way's through living the principle.”

That night Rebecca started another letter to Joshua. At first her words were stilted phrases detailing the events of her life, at the same time her thoughts were busy. Joshua bought a Bible. Why did he talk about the Whitmans and a glory?

She wrote, “You talk about a glory, and I know it has something to do with the Whitmans. I'm guessing it's a spirit thing you've got a hankering for. We get lots of that kind of feeling around here. Mostly it confuses me. I don't doubt there's a God, but I find myself wondering if He's like they say He is. They say He's kind and loving. That He's trying to help us live right. But there's much that's fearful. We hear sermons from the twelve apostles and the first presidency where they're passing out curses on everyone who opposes the Saints. At first I was kind of glad, but then it started drawing such fearful pictures of God. I've begun to wonder if all those curses were deserved. Right now I'm relieved to see that not many of them have been carried out.

“But I must confess, I'm convinced more and more that the Latter-day Saints are really God's people, and that only through believing like they do and accepting the restored gospel given through Joseph Smith will anyone ever make it to glory. You see, there's just too much happening to show that God's with them. I am constantly hearing stories about how Joseph Smith had visions and how he could heal people. Others, from the apostles on down to the bishops, are able to heal too.

“Just this last month I've been to a fasting and testimony meeting, and one woman there spoke in a strange manner. I couldn't understand her, but Ann had told me about the gift of the Spirit that's called speaking in tongues. It gave me gooseflesh to listen to her, but it was beautiful, all high and almost like a song. I guess with all these things happening, I must conclude that these people really do have God with them and that I'll have to admit Joseph Smith is right—he's proven it by his visions and prophecies. There's just no other way. Mormonism is right. They have the witness.”

When Rebecca finished the letter and folded it, she found herself straining to check that inner pulse of her being. The declaration she had made didn't seem to satisfy some deep resistance within. She was almost relieved that she had no way to get the letter to Joshua.

The summer of 1851 saw the beginning of a regular mail route established between Utah Territory and California. As news of success and failure trickled in from the gold mines, Rebecca had another letter from Joshua.

She studied the familiar writing, seeing Joshua's bright hair and his intense blue eyes. At the beginning of his letter Joshua said, “I'm going to write Ma to send that wedding dress to you so's the first chance I get I can come marry you before one of those Mormon guys gets you.”

In a more serious vein, his letter went on to describe the poor living conditions and the profiteering that was taking place on the gold fields. “Me thinks,” the letter said, “the only ones getting rich are the ladies doing the laundry for the miners, and the cattlemen and farmers who are feeding us. Potatoes and beef could be gold for the price they bring. The gold fields are a poor place for a man and family. I'll not stay much longer. Becky, it's me and you for the green forests of Oregon. I respect Pa's advice about having a nest egg before I think of taking on family responsibilities, but I think I had better snatch you before someone else does.”

“That Joshua,” Rebecca said ruefully as she carefully folded the letter. “It's impossible to know whether he's teasing or serious. My common sense tells me to take his fine words with a grain of salt.”

Autumn was fast approaching. With new excitement Rebecca prepared for school. This year her district had a new schoolhouse, but then this was so for nearly every ward in the city.

As Rebecca worked in the small, frame building, setting her classroom in order for the opening day, her lips were twisting with wry amusement. She sighed and shook her head. “Oh, your hasty tongue!” Last spring, looking at the discontented faces of her pupils, she had said, “I prophesy that within another year, we'll have lots of school books and fun books to read.”

The effect had been electrifying. “Rah, rah, for Miss Becky's prophecy.” The room had vibrated with the shouting as faces brightened with anticipation.

Now Rebecca was looking at the poor line of books: the primer, the Bible, and the Book of Mormon. She was also remembering that one of Brigham Young's wives had a new grand piano, pulled across the plains by a team and wagon which could just as well have been bringing books.