The Work and the Glory (47 page)

Years later, after her marriage, she was reading in the Apostle Paul’s second epistle to the Corinthians. The words had leaped out at her from the page. “Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness?” The lesson of so many years earlier came flooding back and it had troubled her for some time. She had finally concluded that while she and Benjamin, spiritually speaking, were not a well-matched span, they still pulled well together.

Now, in the past few months, she was no longer sure but what she and Benjamin had not become ox and mule—or mule and ox, she thought, momentarily taken with the wry question of whether she was ox or mule. But instantly she sobered. Had it come to this now? The thought frightened her, and so, as in all things that troubled her, she took it to the Lord in prayer. “O God,” she supplicated, “wilt thou touch the eyes of his understanding that he may see and know for himself. And if that be not possible, if he cannot accept thy servant Joseph and the work thou hast given him to do, then wilt thou at least touch his heart so it may be softened towards the work. He is a good and gentle man, O Lord, and I seek not to bring contention and difference between us. And yet, dear Father, thou hast shown unto me these things are true—”

She stopped, suddenly realizing there had been a change in the breathing behind her. She had not spoken aloud. She had cried only in her heart, but now she felt Benjamin’s wakefulness and his awareness of her presence. She offered a quick amen and slipped into bed as quietly as possible. She did not look at him. It was too dark to see anyway, but she didn’t have to. There was no movement, no change in the steady breathing, but after nearly a quarter of a century of sharing the same bed she knew full well he was wide awake.

For several moments the silence stretched on, then he stirred slightly. “Is Nathan back yet?” he asked. His voice was too soft to reveal if there was any kind of emotion behind it.

“I thought I heard him ride in about half an hour ago,” she answered, “but he hasn’t come in.”

There was no answer, and after a moment she turned onto her side to face him. “How is your arm?”

She felt him shrug in the darkness. “Martin Harris brought some kind of tea from his wife. That helps.”

“Oh?” she said in surprise. “That was nice of him.”

“Did you tell him to come and see me?” His voice was suddenly blunt and confrontational.

She tensed. “No.”

“You didn’t tell him to come tell me that ridiculous story about the angel appearing to him?”

Mary Ann turned back over and stared up at the ceiling, fighting back a deep melancholy that swept over her. “No, Benjamin, I had no idea he was coming.”

“Well, he did.”

“And you don’t believe it?”

He snorted in derision.

“It wasn’t just him, Ben,” she said slowly. “Oliver Cowdery and-”

“Don’t!” he snapped. “I heard it all.”

“You think he’s lying?” she said incredulously. If there was one thing Benjamin felt about Martin Harris, it was that his integrity was rock solid.

“No, not lying. I think he’s been deluded. I don’t know how Joseph has done it, but it’s an evil thing, Mary Ann, and I want no part of it.”

She couldn’t repress the sorrow which rose from the depths of her soul.

“Did you know he’s going to mortgage his farm and give Joseph three thousand dollars?”

“He’s not giving it to Joseph,” she answered wearily. “He’s giving it to the printer to print the Book of Mormon. Joseph won’t get one bit of that money.”

“Three thousand dollars!” he repeated, as though she hadn’t spoken. “It’s insane.”

“If you would just come and listen to Joseph, Benjamin,” she began, her voice soft with its pleading, “if you would read some of the things he has translated from the gold plates…”

He came up on one elbow with a sharp jerk, and she could feel him glaring at her in the darkness. “You just get that out of your head, woman,” he cried in a hoarse whisper.

“But you won’t even try to—”

He slammed his open palm against the bed. “It’s gone too far, Mary Ann. I shoulda put an end to it before now. I’ll not have you and Nathan bewitched by this man like Mr. Harris has been.”

“Bewitched?” she cried. “Is that your explanation for all this?”

He ignored the question. “I’ve put up with it till now because I’ve always believed a person’s religion was their business, but now you’re bringing the children in on it as well. Well, I won’t have it destroying my family. I won’t!”

She felt her heart plummet. “What are you saying, Ben?”

“There’ll be no more going to Fayette, no more talk of Joseph Smith and his gold plates in this house—whether I’m present or not—and there’ll be no more chasing after this deviltry. Not from you. Not from Nathan.”

“And if Nathan refuses to accept that?”

“He’d better not.”

“Will you slap his face too?”

There was a sharp intake of breath, and she instantly regretted having said it.

Finally he spoke, his voice thin and trembling with anger. “Nathan has his own land now. If he doesn’t want to live by the rules of this house, then let him go his own way. I can’t speak for him anymore.”

He lay back down on his pillow. “But so help me, you are my wife. I can and will speak for you. And if you don’t like it, then maybe you’d better think about moving in with Nathan.”

And with that he turned his back to her, leaving her to stare upward at nothing in the darkness.

“Bring this man another beer!” Joshua hollered over his shoulder at the young man behind the bar, then he turned back to face the ferret of a man sitting across the table from him. He had never particularly liked Caleb Jackson when they had worked the docks of Palmyra together. He had been shifty, always quick to select the lightest bale or crate, and Joshua more than once had suspected him of pilfering materials from the warehouse.

But all of that was brushed aside now. Here was someone from home. And recently so. In the twenty or so months since he had left, Joshua had talked with numerous people who had been in Palmyra, but they had merely been passing through, making no more than an overnight stop as they journeyed westward along the Erie Canal. Six months earlier a family from down Canandaigua way had come to Independence, but that was twenty-some miles south of Palmyra. They had never heard of his family, and the news was pretty thin.

He leaned forward eagerly. “So, Caleb, what brings you this far west?”

Caleb was a small man with a thin face dominated by a huge misshapen nose. Joshua had always wondered if someone had broken it for him, but had never felt it his business to ask. He had clear blue eyes, but they were always moving, never quite meeting one’s direct gaze. It was this characteristic which made Joshua think of him as a ferret. In Palmyra he had worn a beard, an unkempt tangle of black, but now he was clean shaven, although a day’s stubble darkened his chin.

The tavern boy brought two more beers, and Caleb grabbed the nearest one and downed the top quarter in one gulp. He wiped at the residue of foam with the back of his sleeve. “I heard there’s money to be made out here.”

The quick furtive glance around as he spoke told Joshua as much as the answer itself. Joshua guessed that, like many other residents of Independence, Caleb Jackson was in trouble with the law somewhere. Indian Territory was close enough to provide an attractive alternative for those looking over their shoulders. Well, that was all right. There was a constable in Cincinnati whom Joshua Steed would happily avoid, for that matter.

“Hear tell you haven’t done so badly,” Caleb went on, his eyes quickly surveying Joshua’s clothes. The shirt was obviously a manufactured one from back east, the pants well tailored, the boots made of fine leather and hand tooled.

Joshua nodded, not trying to hide his pleasure. Let them know Joshua Steed could make his own way in the world. In a way, he wished Caleb was going back and could take the word with him. “I’ve done all right.” He paused just long enough, then asked, “So, how are things back home?”

Caleb shrugged and took another deep drink from his mug. “Same as ever. Old man Benson is still bossing the crew at the warehouse like he was a general in some highfalutin army or something. I finally had enough of his mouth and just walked away.”

Meaning you were fired,
Joshua thought.
And probably for drinking.
But he merely smiled sympathetically. “Did you ever get to see any of my family?” he asked casually.

Caleb nodded. “Saw your pa at Phelps’s tavern a month or so ago. He broke his arm cutting down trees.”

Joshua didn’t respond, just waited.

“Haven’t been out there, but they say he and your brother are really making quite a farm out north of town.” He grinned, an evil, leering expression. “I saw your sister at a town picnic—the one just younger than you. She’s getting to be a real looker.”

The look in Joshua’s eye wiped the grin away instantly. He shrugged, turning his attention to the beer. “That’s about it.”

Joshua leaned back in his chair, watching him. “Ever see that storekeeper’s daughter, Lydia McBride?” he asked evenly.

Caleb’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yeah! Talk about a looker. I used to go into the store just to stand and gawk at her.”

“How’s she doing?”

Caleb was suddenly wary. “Fine, I guess,” he hedged. “I never said nothin’ to her. Besides, she was in Boston for nigh on a year.”

“Boston?” He felt a surge of relief. No wonder there had been no answer to his letters.

“Heard she got back again just a day or two before I left, but can’t say for sure. I didn’t see her.”

“She have a beau yet?”

A startled look flashed across his face, then Caleb looked down, staring into what was left of his beer.

“Well, does she?” Joshua pressed. Then he laughed, as though it didn’t matter. “I was thinking of going back there next spring. To see the family,” he added hastily. “Thought I’d call and pay my respects to Miss Lydia if she isn’t hitched by then.”

Caleb finally looked up. “You mean you haven’t heard?”

Joshua kept his face expressionless. “Heard what?”

“She and your brother—” He stopped as Joshua came forward, the chair legs hitting the floor with a sharp crack.

“You mean Nathan?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s his name.” Caleb was squirming like a rat cornered by a tomcat.

“What about them?”

The ferret’s head turned this way and that, trying to avoid the skewering hardness of Joshua’s face. Joshua’s hand shot out and grabbed his arm, pinning it to the table and causing him to wince with pain. “What about them?” he roared. A sudden silence swept the room as several men jerked around in surprise. The boy behind the bar was wide-eyed and staring.

Caleb swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing once in fright. “They’re engaged to be married.”

Joshua released his grip, sagging backwards. “When?”

Caleb shrugged, licking his lips. “Everybody in town was talking ‘bout it. She came home from Boston to get hitched. I reckon they’re probably married by now.”

“Mr. Steed, I ain’t sure this is such a good idea.”

Joshua whirled, swinging the bottle angrily at the man standing next to him. The man easily sidestepped the blow, then had to step forward quickly to stop Joshua from falling off the step.

“You’re being paid, Parson,” Joshua shouted, his voice slurring heavily. “Now stand there and shut up.”

He turned back to the door and battered at it with his fist. “Roundy! Blast you! Open this door.”

There was a muffled sound inside, and then lamplight glowed in the window. Joshua stepped back. Suddenly some sense of decorum gripped him, and he hastily tossed the whiskey bottle aside and tugged at the bottom of his jacket. Not that it mattered. Jessie Roundy was one woman that if there was manure on your boots, it wouldn’t make no never mind with her.

The door opened and Jessica Roundy stood there, clutching at the shawl around the shoulders of her nightshirt, blinking at them in dazed bewilderment. “Joshua?”

“Who is it, Jessie?” It was a muffled call. There was the crash of a chair being overturned, then Clinton Roundy stumbled out, dressed in red long johns and clutching a shotgun. He stopped, likewise staring at the men at the door. “Steed! What—do you know what time it is?”

Joshua stepped back and bowed low. “I’ve come to ask you for the hand of your lovely daughter in marriage.”

Jessica fell back a step, her eyes wide and suddenly dazed.

“You’re drunk,” Roundy said in disgust, coming to the door and opening it wider.

“I’m not that drunk,” Joshua protested. He stepped inside, swayed dangerously for a moment, then remembered his companion. “Parson, get yourself in here.”

The man removed his hat and came inside. He looked first at Jessica, then at her father. “I’m sorry, Mr. Roundy. He got me out of bed. I tried to tell him this ought to wait until morning, but—”

“Mornin’ nothin! I want to get married, and I want to do it now.” Joshua swung around and groped for Jessica’s hand. She was still staring at him as though she had been struck by one of his wagons.

“Look, Joshua,” Roundy said, forcing a smile, “I think you’d better go on home and sleep this off. Then we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

Joshua ignored him. Suddenly he seemed cold sober as he leaned forward, peering into Jessica’s eyes. “I came to marry you, woman. It’s now or not at all. Will you have me to be your husband?”

For several moments, the soft doe eyes of Jessica Roundy searched Joshua’s face. They were filled with an infinite sadness, but finally she nodded. “Yes, Joshua, I will.”

She turned to the minister. “Just give me a few minutes to get dressed.”

Chapter Twenty-three

Good wood always warms you thrice.”

Nathan put down the drawknife and wiped at the sweat on his brow with the back of his sleeve. It was mid-March, and there was a strong chill in the air. The sky was slate gray and lowering, and there’d be rain, if not snow, for sure by nightfall. His breath came in little puffs of white, disappearing almost as quickly as they formed. Yet in spite of the cold, Nathan was sweating.