Morning Star (23 page)

Later Mark had reason to be grateful for the strange conversation with the two men.

By the time the Prophet had arrived at the office, Mark had pieced together all the facts and the ramifications of the invitation Joseph would extend to him.

Sitting at his desk he muttered, “Number one, my wife will forfeit our marriage before she will surrender her only hope of salvation. Number two, if I don't cooperate, I'll be forced to leave. My marriage vows still mean more to me than anything else in life. Joe's teachings aren't biblical. I can give in to the anger and frustration I feel, or I leave, standing no chance of being an influence for Jenny's salvation. Number three, the baby.” He winced and tried to push out of his mind the dark thoughts that surfaced every time he saw the questions in the eyes of the brethren. He sighed and added, “Number four, even though I don't count with Jenny in these new circumstances, I love her more than—life.”

When Joseph walked in Mark got to his feet. He looked at the smooth, smiling face of the Prophet, and found that the distance of five months allowed him to be objective.

Narrowing his eyes, he saw Joseph as a stranger would. In the rush of the Prophet's words, Mark tried to steel himself against the charm, against the bid to like the man.

In the back of his mind a picture was forming, compiled of the bits and pieces of six years' worth of scenes and words. While he stared at Joseph, he found himself wondering how he could know the man as intimately as he did, how he could add the new knowledge he was accumulating, without hating Joseph hopelessly.

Mark composed himself to listen to Joseph's smooth recital. He was seeing the words punctuated with the ethereal look on Joseph's face as he rehashed the events Tom had told him the night before.

Later Mark nodded his head, agreeing to become part of Joseph's inner kingdom workings, with the task of preparing to offer up to the world the lately revealed secrets; Mark did it with Jenny's heart-shaped face and shadowed eyes firmly before him.

Chapter 22

On Christmas Eve Tom came into the house, sniffing, bringing a cradle he had made. Jenny had been baking pies, and the savory odor of dressing for the goose mingled with the apple and mince and pumpkin.

“Oh, Tom, it is absolutely beautiful!” she cried, bending over the cradle. She fingered the carving and nudged it into rocking. “Mark, come see!”

There was a sigh of exasperation from the parlor, and Mark emerged from the depths of the teetering fir tree.

Tom eyed the tree sagging against the wall and said, “I see I have my work cut out for me. Mark, how come you still can't put a stand on straight?” Addressing Jenny he said, “Besides me, who's going to eat all those pies?”

“The Morgans are coming. Andy's sister is visiting them; she'll be here too.”

“I suppose she's young and fat with buck teeth.”

“You're going to have to start someplace,” Mark said darkly.

Tom saw Jenny's sharp glance, but her voice was smooth as she said, “She's a nice girl. I met her at Relief Society meeting last week.” As Jenny continued to talk up the virtues of Helene Morgan, Tom saw the shadows in Jenny's eyes.

When she paused for breath, he asked, “You ailin'?”

She threw him a startled glance and then the brooding expression shifted to Mark struggling with the tree. “No. It's just that—I guess I'm tired.”

Mark was standing in the doorway. “Jen, let's put on candles for decoration, but don't light them. Can't see any sense in getting the house on fire. The red will look nice with the string of white popcorn.”

She nodded without looking up. Addressing Tom she said, “I understand the Prophet's having a big party at the Mansion House. We were invited, but Mark didn't want to go.” She sighed wistfully, “I would have loved to see their tree. And there's to be music.”

Mark's voice was sharp as he said, “You shouldn't be traveling that far in the snow in a buggy.” To Tom he added, “I've ordered a sleigh; unfortunately it hasn't been delivered yet. It's just too risky for her to be out in a buggy now. Sam Wright's family was stranded in a drift while he had to go for help.”

Abruptly Mark turned back to the parlor. Tom was silent, struck by Mark's cold voice and impatient manner. He watched as his brother-in-law began struggling with the tree, then he went to help.

Late that evening, after a quick supper of bacon and corn chowder, more gifts were presented. Tom was still admiring his new muffler as he watched Jenny open the big box.

When the color slowly drained from her face, Tom looked at Mark and saw his frown. Jenny's face was strained as she lifted the brilliant red robe from the box. Tom saw the question in her eyes as she held the wool against her face.

Frowning, Mark said, “You don't like the color? I bought the heaviest one I could find. It's a boudoir gown. I thought with the baby—”

“Oh,” she whispered, and Tom wondered at the relief in her voice and then he began to chuckle as she explained, “it's beautiful. I just wondered for a moment if I were to wear it to church.” Mark began to laugh, but Tom saw she still wore the strange expression.

“With the size you are getting to be and the color,” Tom shook his head, “you'd be a sensation!”

Mark was grinning as he went to kiss Jenny, saying, “Merry Christmas, my dear wife. I'm sorry the sleigh isn't here. I just can't risk you now.”

“Young'uns don't grow on trees,” Tom said dryly, feeling a relief he couldn't identify when Jenny lifted a radiant smile to Mark.

That relief stretched through the following day, and Tom discovered that Helene wasn't all that bad.

When Tom returned to Nauvoo Christmas night, he shook his head over the doings at the Mansion House.

Sitting horseback outside the house, looking at the line of carriages, and listening to the roar of masculine voices rising above the fiddles, he slowly said, “One thing, with the twirling and dipping going on, and the eating and drinking, I'd say the Lord's up to changing the emphasis again. Back in Kirtland days”—now he was addressing the white uniformed men standing guard at the gate—“back then there was no unholy frolic. 'Twas good business to be sober and holy. Times have changed.”

Shaking his head, he rode toward the livery stable. But inside, Tom looked at the cold forge and with a troubled frown he said, “Leaves a body wondering. Will this church end up as cold and lifeless as all the others? I feel the high tide of excitement giving way to secret whispers which bode no good.”

He went upstairs to his lonely room. With a sense of relief, he stoked the little sheet metal stove into cherry-red comfort.

He looked around his barren chamber and addressed the festoon of cobwebs. “Not likely I'll get married unless forced into it. Me and the dirt are comfortable. Even the smell of horses I don't object to. Besides, I can't afford a wife—or two or three.” He glumly surveyed the
Book of Mormon
resting on the wooden crate beside his bed.

He was thinking of the barroom whispers the men were passing around along with the drinks. “Is having more'n one wife the way to beat the doldrums the church is having? Or is there a bigger reason for it?” He shook his head and wondered at the dismay in his own heart. There were shadows in Jenny's eyes, too. Could Mark have been touched for the teaching? With a regretful sigh Tom admitted to himself that he could very likely be next.

As he pulled the kettle of water over the heat, Tom was thinking of his initiation into Masonry last spring and now into this new council.

When he finally moved and sighed again, he said, “One thing's sure. Mark's joined up in Joseph's high priesthood, and they're teaching the way to earn salvation is through having more'n one wife. Right now he's not the most gladsome individual alive, and seems his confidence has slipped, but I guess I can trust him.” He frowned. But what about Jenny's wan cheeks and her shadowy eyes?

Tom tried to imagine how his sister would feel about sharing her home with another woman. It was impossible, but he guessed her expression told him something. “Makes a body wish there were a different way to get into God's good graces.” He shook his head and sighed. It was John Taylor himself who said the teaching would last forever because a revelation, once given, wouldn't ever be taken back.

The twenty-seventh of December dawned crystal clear, full of sunshine. As Mark rode into Nauvoo he considered the week before him. He knew Joseph would be leaving for the Springfield trial immediately.

The church had engaged the District Attorney for the state of Illinois to handle the case; when Mark found out, he breathed a sigh of relief. He now could easily decline Joseph's invitation to be part of the group traveling to the city.

Later in the day, Mark stood in the doorway of the office and watched the men set out for Springfield. Just as they had earlier escorted the Prophet to the office, now John Taylor and Orson Hyde, on either side of Joseph Smith, supported him as he cautiously stepped down the stairs. Obviously the Prophet still suffered from his exuberant celebration of Christmas.

As the trio left, Mark found himself shaking his head over the picture. The subdued Prophet, with dark circles under his eyes, hung on Taylor's arm, walking as if each step jarred clear through his frame.

Mark walked back into his office, chuckling and shaking his head. Patty Sessions was waiting, and noting his humor, she released her sharp tongue. “Why are you rejoicing over his misery? Seems a body can always pick out a man who thinks he's abused by the Prophet. A body who loves him sure won't be gleeful over his misery.”

“What makes you think I feel mistreated?” Mark asked, astonished. Without answering, she pressed her lips together. Mark began wondering why his bruised spirit was so evident to others. He thought it carefully hidden.

Jenny's new sleigh was delivered just after the first of the year, the day before Joseph and his men returned to Nauvoo.

Mark had been standing at his office window when he became aware of the surge of excited people, and the sound of drums and bugles.

Within hours all of Nauvoo knew of the victory, and the city reverberated with the sounds of celebration. The people continued to crowd the streets to welcome their Prophet, and Mark went down to join them.

Later Mark carried home an invitation to dinner at the Mansion House, explaining to Jenny that all the city notables and church leaders had been invited to a gala dinner the following evening.

When Mark gave his news, he couldn't help grinning at Jenny's bright-eyed joy. “Yes, my dear wife, we'll go. My neck was saved by the sleigh, wasn't it?”

“Did you join the parade? I suppose the Legion was out in all their glory. Will Sally and Andy be there? What about Emma? 'Tis so sad that her baby died.” Now she was sober, and for a moment Mark responded to her secret fear.

For the first time in weeks, Mark scooped Jenny up to sit in the rocking chair with him. “Your questions? Yes, yes, and I don't know.” He was forcing the grin, trying to seem lighthearted over the sudden awareness of the blue-veined fragility of her face, and weight of the child moving against him.

He resisted the desire to crush her to him and unburden himself of all the hidden fears. Lightly he said, “My dear, you need to rest if you intend being out half the night.”

“Rest!” she wailed, “I
must
find something to wear that will fit around me. Oh, Mark, do I look awful?”

“You are beautiful,” he said. With a sharp pang he added, “I don't want to risk you unnecessarily.”

She leaned back and he saw the questions. “Is that why you—you are always busy?”

He pressed his lips to her forehead, “Am I too busy?” She was nodding and he felt the moisture against his face. “What shall I do for you?”

“Oh, Mark—talk.” She leaned back to look into his face, but even as she lifted her hand to touch his lips, he remembered the shrinking away, the shadows. Because he feared those shadows as much as she, he held her close, hiding his face in her hair.

The next evening was crisp and the snow sang beneath the runners of the new sleigh. “Oh, Mark, it's wonderful!” Jenny cried from the depths of the buffalo robe. “It rides as smooth as ice skating. See even Tupper loves it.” She pointed at the mare swishing her tail.

Jenny's cheeks were pink and her eyes were sparkling, reminding him of a time long ago. “You remember ice skating.”

She only nodded, but he could see her eyes were soft with gentle memories. He found himself wishing to hold the moment, but wishing even more desperately, to wing back through the years. “The beautiful young Jenny,” he murmured. With a pang of regret, he saw his words brought back the shadows.

The Mansion House glowed with lamps in every window. There was music and the sound of laughter and clink of dishes. As Mark and Jenny stepped through the door, Jenny looked toward the stairwell.

The sweep of polished stairs was empty of all except memories. Jenny stared at that spot and remembered the horror of Eliza tumbling and screaming. She shivered under her shawl as she followed the crowd into the parlor.

A pale-faced Emma, isolated in her chair by the hearth, her figure swathed in black, was the only somber note in the room.

For several minutes, Jenny stood near the back of the crowded room and wrapped her shawl tightly around herself as she listened to Joseph. She wondered if her condition were making him seem a braggart. He was giving every detail of his trip to Springfield and the trial while his audience hung on every word. She found herself watching his face, but his words slipped passed her.

In a few minutes, Jenny moved slowly through the visitors to that dark-clad figure by the fire. As she walked, her attention was caught by the expressions of those around her.

Sarah Pratt blocked Jenny's path. She lifted her face, saw Jenny's figure, and smiled broadly. But Jenny was struck by that first expression.