The Wedding Dress (7 page)

With all the churches there are, why must another church be started? It seems to be causing an awful lot of trouble,” Rebecca said as she frowned at the book she held. Again she and Cora Wright were sitting on the steps of the temple.

In the months since her meeting with Cora, Rebecca had thought often about the girl. Cynthia was right; Becky was completely caught up with the friendship.

This morning Cynthia had turned to Rebecca. With a gentle push, she said, “You're chattering about that girl. Take Nell and go. 'Tis your last chance before that bunch moves out.”

As she rode into town, Rebecca raised her head and took a deep breath of the warm air. The familiar farmyard smells were overlaid with the river tang. Mud, fish, water—it all stirred her senses. In her mind it was coupled with a promise of freedom. The throaty toot of the riverboats seemed to beckon her on.

Today she had gone directly to the little log cabin. Cora greeted her, drawing her into the cabin. The dark, scowling woman in the rocker had been ill the first time Rebecca had visited the cabin. Now Cora introduced her, “This is Mrs. Wright,” she said stiffly, “and my friend Rebecca Wolstone.”

With a whirlwind change of mood, Cora touched Rebecca's hand saying, “Come, let's walk up the hill to the temple. It's too nice to stay inside.”

Tugging Rebecca toward the door, she told the woman, “We'll be back shortly.”

As they climbed the hill, a tiny question tugged at Rebecca's thoughts. “Is she your stepmother?” Cora threw her a startled glance and then shook her head as she paused to pull a stalk of marigold growing through the fence.

When they had settled themselves on the steps, Cora dropped her shawl and held up the book. “You asked about the Book of Mormon. I brought ours.”

As Rebecca thumbed randomly through the book, she realized Cora seemed interested in nothing except her religion. Disappointment dampened Rebecca's enthusiasm, but she gave her attention to Cora, listening as she told of her conversion and the move west.

“It's hard, really hard to make the change.” She touched a finger to the tear in the corner of her eye. “Everyone treats you like you've developed two heads. I don't know why there's so much prejudice. Seems people would be more eager to accept the new teachings. After all, Joseph Smith
is
a prophet.”

“Look”—Rebecca closed the book and turned to Cora—“I'll confess. All this is like a rope around me, drawing me on. The Mormons have suffered terribly over the death of that man. The more I hear, the sorrier I feel.” She pressed her hands to her face. “I just ache over what's happened. I've watched these sad people for so long I feel a part of them. But every time I get close to you all, I end up whirling around inside like Cynthia's old butter churn. Why? Why am I fearing?”

Cora's eyes were wide as she searched Rebecca's face. “Maybe God's calling you to be a part of us. You're fearing because you don't want to suffer like us. Becky, don't be afraid. I'll help you understand and be brave too.”

“You won't be here.” Even then Rebecca was afraid to admit that next step.

Cora whispered the words, “You can come with us. You can travel in our wagon.”

Rebecca closed her eyes, and Lank's face flashed in front of her. Quickly she opened them and said, “I'll have to think hard about it all.”

“Don't take too long; we'll be leaving before the month is out.”

When Rebecca turned Nell up the hill to the Smyth farm, she was still filled with the churning emotions of the afternoon. “Me thinks I should have stayed home,” she murmured into the mare's ear.

Matthew was back from his winter job with the Perkinses; and when the riverboats tooted he was prone to look down the hill with a wistful expression in his eyes. Rebecca said, “You're feeling it too, aren't you?”

“What do you mean?” He turned back to his hoeing.

“You've got that same expression Josh had before he left for Oregon.”

“Won't do me no good,” he said bitterly. “Pa'll never get along without me.”

“Never you mind. I have a hunch Josh'll be back to take you all to Oregon.”

“What you going to do? Won't you come too?”

In the week that followed, Rebecca found herself echoing Matthew's question. At the back of her mind, Cora's invitation was pressing. By turns it seemed enticing, compelling, and then totally impossible.

Through it all, she discovered a sore spot that needed understanding. It was Joshua. Like a fading photograph, he was becoming dim to her; even his parting words were losing their promise.

In the limbo of that final week, when indecision settled into a nagging worry, the problem of Lank took on a new dimension.

At the end of a hot day in the garden, she carried her hoe to the barn and found Lank waiting. With his hair slicked down and the hungry look in his eyes, he followed her.

“Lank, what are you doing here at milking time?”

“Miss Becky, could I talk to you?” He followed as she hung the hoe behind the door. He cleared his throat. “It's been a long time since Mrs. Olson passed on.” He took the plunge, “Could I come courtin'?”

“No,” she said simply. Walking past him, she carried her bucket to the well. As she poured cold water over the greens she viewed herself with astonishment. The crisis had been met and answered. Really, there was no crisis at all.

She watched Lank head back across the fields to his own house and wondered why she didn't feel sorry for him.

The following day Cora came to visit. Rebecca and Cynthia were washing clothes under the apple tree when she heard Nell's welcoming nicker.

Reaching her hands to Cora, she said, “Cynthia, this is Cora Wright.” Cynthia's glance was cool, but then she had been frosty since last night when Rebecca had confessed her refusal of Lank's offer. Prue's reproachful “I think Mr. Lank is very nice” hadn't helped matters either.

“There's a jug of fresh buttermilk cooling in the well,” Cynthia said.

Cora flushed, “That would be nice.” Her voice was low, and Cynthia melted.

“Becky, fetch it. We don't have many visitors. Seems the trip up the hill is a mite too far.” She retreated into the house.

After the buttermilk, Cora said wistfully, “This is a pretty place; you can see the whole valley and the river. It has a home feeling. Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever know that feeling again.”

She caught her breath and said, “We're leaving next week.” The words dangled until she said, “There's a dozen wagons taking the ferry Thursday. Mr. Wright said if you want to go, you'll have to travel light. Just your clothes and grub.”

“I'll have to think more,” Rebecca said, but under the thread of conversation her mind was busy sorting and packing.

On Thursday the Smyths drove Rebecca down to the wharf. Although it was early, wagons had formed a line down to the ferry. In the drifting mists they seemed to issue from that white limestone with the gleaming dome.

Tyler found the Wrights' small wagon. It was crammed with bundles and barrels. The canvas top barely covered the load bulging out the sides. A small brown and white cow was fastened to the rear of the wagon.

“Oh, Becky,” Cynthia said, looking at the cow, “do you really want this?”

There was a lump in Rebecca's throat, but she nodded as she watched Mr. Wright shaking hands with Tyler. Her heart sank. She tried to corral her leaping thoughts; but how could this spindly, middle-aged man calm those fearful, lonesome thoughts that were already running around in her head?

Tyler returned to the buggy and lifted down the bundle of bedding and the bag containing Rebecca's clothes. Mr. Wright took the sack of flour and one of cornmeal. When Tyler reached for the black leather trunk, he shook his head.

“But it's the wedding dress!” Rebecca exclaimed. “It belonged to my mother.”

He continued to shake his head. “There's no room.” Rebecca watched him lift the piece of bacon and the sack of dried apples. “You'll have to leave it behind.”

Prudence spoke, “If Josh comes, he can bring it to you.”

Cynthia was shaking her head. “She could be going to the ends of the earth.”

“Josh.” Rebecca was hanging on to the thread. She knew she had to hang on to that hope or she must stay. “Will you tell Joshua to write to me? I'll let you know where I am.”

“There's some talk of Brigham heading for Oregon.”

Rebecca turned to Cynthia, “I may see Joshua,” she said eagerly.

“Are you taking the Bible?” Jamie asked. “You could carry that.”

Mr. Wright nodded, and Rebecca knelt beside the trunk and pulled the Book out from under the wrapped dress, For a moment her fingers caressed the cotton, feeling the crispness of the heavy silk through the wrappings. The pain of leaving the dress was trying to reach through the shell she had built around herself. It would be impossible to tear herself away from these people if she allowed one lonely thought.

She closed the trunk, and holding the Book tightly in her arms she turned. “I'll not even
think
that I'll never see you again.”

Shouts were moving down the line, and the wagons began to pull out. Cynthia snatched her close and then gave her a gentle push. Rebecca stumbled after Cora and crawled into the wagon. She was knowing only the ache inside.

The first night, when the stars had brightened and the fires dimmed, Cora lifted her chin and said, “I'm going to sleep under the wagon with Rebecca. 'Tis too nice to be inside.”

There was a moment of silence, and Mr. Wright said, “If you wish.” He moved off in the darkness. Without comment, Mrs. Wright climbed into the wagon.

During the star-filled nights, Rebecca and Cora talked. With sweet grass under their cheeks and the gentle cropping of the night-grazing animals nearby, Rebecca was beginning to feel the pull of this new life.

It was nearly three weeks before the little wagon train reached the first permanent camp. On the evening the wagons rolled into the settlement of Garden Grove, the setting sun painted the sky with scarlet plumes. The color was a banner of triumph over rows of waist-high corn and bright grain.

Rebecca watched people spill out of the houses. The welcoming arms were for all. She felt the peace of the place reach out to her.

There was fresh-baked bread and milk still warm from the cows. A handful of wild strawberries was shared, and the meal became a feast. After supper, weary travelers were spread around the neighborhood.

Even before bedtime the plan was revealed. The welcoming settlers would leave for the next camp, and the newcomers would take their place, resting and bringing the crops to harvest while they waited for the next wagon train to arrive. The few weeks of respite from travel were busy from sunup to sundown with planting, hoeing, and harvesting.

July heat was upon them before they moved on. There were more wagons to join them on this leg of the trip. “New York will tilt to the sky, and California will sink beneath this mass,” Rebecca said, looking out the back of the wagon.

In the hurried pace of the past weeks, Cora and Rebecca had seen little of each other. Now Rebecca was looking forward to renewing their friendship. This leg of the journey would be brief, and at Mount Pisgah, twenty-seven miles west of Garden Grove, there would be more harvesting and replanting.

On the first morning that Cora lost her breakfast, Rebecca had been sympathetic. In the days that they traveled to Mount Pisgah, Cora's indisposition didn't improve, and Rebecca began to worry. Cora was wan and listless, but it was Mrs. Wright's indifference that plagued Rebecca. She was grateful when the journey was completed.

They settled into life at Mount Pisgah, caught up with the busy harvesttime. One day Cora arrived at the community garden patch while Rebecca was hoeing. She carried a basket, and her sunbonnet was pulled low over her face. “Lucky you,” Rebecca called to her. “You'll be picking beans while I have the hot work.”