The Work and the Glory (360 page)

“Of course.” And he really did mean that.

“I know you want to stay here so you can be close to Jenny.” She hesitated. “I know you’re worried about Andrew Stokes.”

His head came up and his eyes were flashing. “I don’t give a hoot about Andrew Stokes.”

Lydia just watched him steadily.

Finally, he dropped his eyes from hers. “All right, so I am worried about Andrew Stokes.” Then the fire was back. “Wouldn’t you be? You see the way Jenny gets all fluttery when he comes in the store. You know how everyone thinks he’s so wonderful.”

“Everyone thinks you’re wonderful, Will.”

“Yeah,” he retorted, completely glum now. “Everyone except Jenny.”

It was as if the baby sensed Will’s sudden pain. He sat up, watched him with large grave eyes for a moment, then crawled over to him and held up his hands.

Will laughed, leaned down, and picked him up. In a moment, Will was bouncing him on his knee and Josiah was squealing in delight. “You have a wonderful way with children, Will,” Lydia said. And then she took a quick breath. “Jenny is . . . Will, Jenny cares a great deal for you. You know that. It’s just that she also cares a great deal for Andrew. Jenny doesn’t know her own heart yet, Will. If you think you’re hurt, think of poor Peter. Jenny just wants to be friends with him, like they’ve always been, but that’s not what Peter wants, and he’s just plain miserable.”

“Yeah, I know.” He stood and began walking with Josiah. “I know you’re right, Aunt Lydia. About Jenny. But going to Wisconsin isn’t going to help my cause any.”

“Probably not. It may make things worse.”

He winced a little with the bluntness of her response. “And you still think I ought to go?”

“I didn’t say that,” she repeated.

“Then what
are
you saying?”

“I’m saying that right now your relationship with your father is just as important—maybe even more important—than your relationship with Jenny Pottsworth.”

His mouth opened slightly, but Lydia went on quickly now. “Will, I don’t know whether or not you’re going to get your answer about the Church. Or when. When you decide, you do what you have to do. But if you and your father are battling—about Jenny, about going to Wisconsin, about whatever it is that seems to be jarring the two of you—your being baptized certainly won’t make it any easier.”

“I don’t care if it’s easy or not,” he blurted. “Pa won’t even try to understand my feelings. Why should I worry about his?”

“I wasn’t talking about it being easier for you, Will,” she said softly.

He visibly flinched as the meaning of her words hit him. “Mama?” he asked in a whisper.

Lydia nodded slowly. She clasped her hands together, watching his eyes. She wanted to take him and hold him, he was so much like her little Josiah at that moment. At the same time, she wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him hard. This was just what she had seen happen before—with Benjamin Steed and his oldest son.

Then Lydia had a thought. “Just a minute, Will.” She stood and started toward the bedroom where she and Nathan slept. Josiah, seeing he was being deserted, yelped in protest and she came back and took him from Will. When she returned she had a copy of the Book of Mormon in her hand. She walked over and handed it to him. She remained standing, rocking back and forth slowly to keep Josiah happy.

He looked at it, then at her. He had one just like it. “What’s this?” he said.

“That’s the Book of Mormon Nathan gave to me before we were married. It’s the book that finally brought me into the Church.”

He nodded. He had heard both Nathan and Lydia tell the story about how she had fought the idea of being a Mormon at first. That, in fact, was one of the reasons he had come to talk with her. Nathan, Matthew, Grandma Steed, Rebecca, Jennifer Jo—all of them had found it easy to accept the gospel. Grandpa Steed had struggled, but not in the same way Will was. He  hadn’t wanted to know, not at first. Then Joseph had finally won him over through friendship.

“Look at it!” she commanded.

He started to open it, but she shook her head. “No. At the outside.”

He examined it more closely, turning it over. And there it was on the back. One corner had a dark brown stain in the leather. It marred the appearance of the book, making it look as though its owner were slovenly.

He touched it again, then looked up. “What is it?”

There was a faint smile. “Coffee grounds.”

His eyebrows rose. And with that she told him the story, told him how bitterly she had resented Joseph Smith, how totally she was caught up in the wave of mockery and ridicule aimed at the boy from Palmyra. Then she fell in love with Nathan, and Joseph’s mission became like a giant tree stump between them. They couldn’t seem to get around it, and they could never go through it. Her voice grew quiet as she recounted Nathan’s final, last-ditch attempt to get through to her by sending her a copy of the Book of Mormon with an accompanying letter of testimony. But it went to her father first, and her father—who harbored a deep and bitter animosity toward this new religious movement—threw it in the trash.

By the time she finished, Josiah had laid his head against her shoulder and fallen asleep. She walked across to Will and took the book from him, holding it in her free hand. She began to rub her thumb over the soiled cover. “Nathan has offered to buy me a new one, but I won’t let him. I wouldn’t take a hundred dollars for this.”

Will slowly nodded. He thought he understood. He was wrong. She wasn’t going to talk about her conversion at all.

She went back to her chair, set the book on the lamp table, and then sat down gently so as not to wake her son. “When my father died, Will, he still had strong feelings against the Mormons.” Her voice was low and husky now, and her eyes were filled with tears. “But I was there, Will. I was back home. Nathan was there too, and my father loved him.” There was a short, tearful laugh. “You can’t know what a miracle that was. For years, he wouldn’t even call Nathan by name. He just called him ‘that farmer’ or ‘that farm boy.’”

Now Will smiled. “Pa always calls Jenny ‘that English girl.’”

She laughed again, and shook her head. “It says so much about what they’re feeling, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“But, Will, that’s what this coffee stain means to me now. You see, Nathan didn’t much like my father either.” She shook her head, remembering well some of the collisions between the two most important men in her life. “He was especially upset when they sent me away because I wanted to be a Mormon. But—” She stopped, very earnest now. “And this is what I want you to think about, Will. In spite of all his feelings about my father, Nathan went back to Palmyra with me. Twice!”

She smiled softly now, her eyes misting again. “You know how Nathan hates being a storekeeper.”

Will couldn’t help but chuckle at that as he nodded.

“In spite of all that, Nathan went back with me and he worked in my father’s store. When my father got sick, he ran the store completely. Do you understand what I’m saying, Will?”

He looked away. “I . . . I think so.”

“The Church can divide us from those we love, Will. Sometimes we have no choice in that, but it shouldn’t stop us from loving them. If we let anger and contention dominate that relationship, how can we say we truly follow the Savior? My father hated the Church and he didn’t like Nathan, but Nathan didn’t let that determine how he would respond to my father.”

She leaned her head against the baby’s, letting the tears flow. Now her voice was barely audible. “And when my father died, he loved Nathan as though he were the son he always wanted. And if he ever, in the world of spirits, accepts the gospel and realizes how blind he was here, it will be because of Nathan, not because of me.”

For a long time they both sat there, Lydia weeping quietly, Will withdrawn deeply into his own thoughts. Finally he stood. “Thank you, Aunt Lydia.” There was a quick, regretful grin. “It wasn’t what I wanted to hear.”

She smiled through the tears. “I know,” she whispered. “But then, you should never ask a McBride for an opinion unless you’re willing to hear what you’re not expecting.”

“Thank you. Don’t get up. You’ll wake him. I’ll show myself out.”

She stood anyway. “Will, I want to ask a favor of you.”

That surprised him. “What?”

“It’s not something that has to happen now. Maybe when you get up there if you go.”

“All right. What is it?”

“I want you to read something.”

He looked forlorn. “I’ve already read that passage in Moroni a dozen times or more.”

She laughed. Every Mormon in the world asked nonmembers to read the promise the angel Moroni had made to those who would read the Book of Mormon with an honest and sincere heart. “No. I want you to read a parable in the book of Luke.”

“A parable?”

“Yes. It’s not long, only the first few verses of chapter eighteen. It can be troublesome in a way. I want you to really think about it.” She held his gaze. “Will you do it?”

“Will it give me my answer?” he shot back, challenging her in return.

She had to answer that honestly. “I don’t know. But it might help you know how to get the answer.”

It was close to midnight when Joshua jerked up with a start. Caroline gave a low moan and turned over. Joshua cocked his head, wondering what had brought him out of so deep a sleep. Then it came again. There was a soft knock on their bedroom door.

He sat up completely, trying to shake the stupor from his mind. “Yes, who is it?”

“It’s me. May I come in?”

Caroline sat up now too, pulling the covers up around her. “Will?”

The door opened and a dark figure stepped inside.

“Where have you been, son?” Joshua asked, feeling a quick jolt of concern.

“Out walking.”

“What?
Have you been with Jenny again?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong, Will?” Caroline asked, jabbing Joshua hard with her elbow.

“Nothing. I’ve just been thinking about things. And I’ve made a decision.”

“What decision?” Joshua exclaimed, exasperation heavy in his voice.

“I’ll be going with you to the pineries, Pa. I thought you ought to know that.”

Chapter Notes

Don Carlos Smith, the youngest son of Joseph and Emma, died on 15 August 1841, just eight days following the death of his uncle and namesake (see
HC
4:402). This was the fourth loss in the Smith family in eleven months. Joseph Smith, Sr., died in September 1840, never having fully recovered from the shock of the persecutions the family suffered in Missouri. Samuel Smith, another of Joseph’s brothers, lost his wife, Mary, in January of 1841. She too had suffered permanent damage in 1838 after being compelled, with her children, to leave their home and being exposed to the inclement weather. Finally, there were the tandem deaths of the senior Don Carlos and his namesake.

Nor did that end it. Two weeks later, on 27 August 1841, Robert Blashel Thompson, husband of Mercy Fielding Thompson and brother-in-law to Hyrum Smith, died of pneumonia. Robert had served as the associate editor with Don Carlos Smith at the
Times and Seasons
and as a scribe to the Prophet. The Smith family counted Robert’s death as another loss of one of their own. (See
HC
4:411.) Finally, on 25 September of that same year, not even one month after Robert’s death, Hyrum Smith, Hyrum’s son, died at the age of seven years four months (see
HC
4:418), making the sixth death in the Smith family in one year’s time.

Chapter 11

   He’s back in the corral, Mrs. Steed. They’re trying to get Elena into a harness.”

“Elena?”

“Yes, ma’am. She’s that little mare your husband took in on trade about a week ago.”

“Oh. All right, thank you.” Caroline started for the door.

The boy cleared his throat quickly. “Uh . . . Mrs. Steed, ma’am?”

She half turned. “Yes, George?”

“Uh, Elena is real skittish, ma’am. They’re having a h—” He caught himself. “A heck of a time with her. Maybe it’s . . . uh . . . maybe you’d like to wait here for Mr. Steed, ma’am.”

She smiled sweetly at him. “Thank you for your concern, George. But I’ll go quietly and not disturb them.”

He started into his stammering drawl again, but she waved airily and walked out. The moment she left the building, she heard the battle going on behind the stables. A horse was snorting, then there came a sharp whinny. A moment later there was a heavy crash followed instantly by a burst of profanity. She slowed her step, glad that it wasn’t Joshua’s voice.

“Whoa, there! Settle down, girl!” This was Joshua, and she could hear him trying to keep his voice low and soothing. Another crash sounded, this one more like a hoof flashing back against a bucket or something. There was one short swear word—this time from Joshua—and the horse began to snort again.

As Caroline came around the front of the stable to where the corral was, she saw why they were swearing. The horse, a beautiful gray, was plunging backward, her head up, eyes wild. One man was just getting up from the ground. Another was circling around, a looped rope in one hand, trying to snare the horse’s head. Joshua was on the halter rope, heels dug in, but being dragged along as though he were a child. His boots left deep furrows in the soft dirt of the corral.

“Get her head! Get her head!” Joshua shouted.

The man in the dirt leaped up and grabbed the rope to help Joshua hold her. The second man threw his rope but the mare saw it and jerked away, and the rope missed her completely. Whinnying wildly now, the mare backed into the corral fence, which was made of thick posts and cross beams lashed together with long strips of rawhide. The whole fence trembled, but it stopped her backward progress for just a moment. Joshua flung himself forward, leaving the other man to hold the rope. In three steps he was to the mare. He grabbed her ears, locking his arms around her neck as he did so, and lifting his feet off the ground so she carried his full weight. “Easy, girl!” he shouted as she jumped back with a startled snort. “Easy, Elena.”

She tried to shake him off, but Joshua hung on doggedly. She reared up, her hooves flashing out, dragging the rope out of the other man’s hands. One of the hooves caught Joshua in the back of his calf and Caroline heard him grunt with the pain. She nearly cried out, but cut it off with a hand to her mouth, knowing that it would only make things worse.