Breath and Bones (13 page)

“No.” She stared into his peculiar beard, which was full of the crumbs
from his dinner. At the last moment she was having some qualms. But she reminded herself of Albert's dear amphibian eyes, drew a deep breath, and announced, “I want to come with you! I am Mormon!”

Goodhouse ushered Famke into the mission office and seated her at the table that served as his desk. He even brought her a cup of rice tea, clanking against its saucer.

But what was this trembling in his hands? He folded and clenched them, and the tremors retreated deep into his bones. Of course the housemaid's conversion was a boon to the mission. Women were still somewhat scarce in the American West, and many young Saints found wives difficult to come by; the un-Saintly men who paid for women often paid very dear—or so Heber had heard. Yes, any female convert was welcome, especially one used to a life of labor. As Brother Jedediah M. Grant had written in one of the tracts now in Heber's luggage, new arrivals had to expect “to leap into the mire and help to fill up a mudhole, to make adobes with their sleeves rolled up, and be spattered with clay from head to foot.”

Heber imagined Famke working in this way: dress tight over her bent back, hands slapping adobe into the wooden molds, muddy from crown to toe. Despite the girl's pallor and slenderness—to him, she looked as breakable as glass—he had seen her hard at work on many occasions, and this imaginary picture was a pretty one. He reflected that in Utah, along with the mud, she might also stain her white hands green, chopping mulberry leaves to feed a hatching of silkworms, or wrap herself in a gossamer web as she carefully, slowly unwound the cocoons that would make the Saints' fortunes. Yes, as a model of industry, she would be an asset both to the Church and to his hometown, Prophet City, which he had instantly decided would be the best placement for her.

“It is a fairly recent settlement,” he told her as he stirred the gummy fluid in his own cup, “just ten years old, and much of the land has yet to be worked. There have been troubles with certain crops, but Brother Young's writings suggest an answer: silk. The climate in our corner of Zion is ideal for the mulberry trees on which the worms feed. I had just started to plow
the orchard when I was called to this mission, and while abroad I ordered one hundred seedlings for my sons to plant. The leaves are now profuse enough to feed a hatching of good Chinese silkworms—white mulberry, you see, produces the finest fiber—”

“Is your farm near a train?” Famke asked when she could stand no more.

He looked slightly hurt but answered nonetheless: “My property is five miles from Prophet itself, and approximately twenty miles beyond that lies Salt Lake City. The railroad passes through there. You will not have to walk, if that is your concern . . .”

“
SÃ¥
.” Famke looked down at her hands, chapped and callused from cleaning for Herr Skatkammer. Once she knew where Albert was, she'd be just half a day from the means of travel to him. She allowed herself a slender, happy smile, a smile she thought was hers alone.

“. . . the future of the Saints, then, is in threads!” Clearly thinking the smile was meant for him and his clever phrase, Heber Goodhouse topped up her cup; but as she became aware of him once more, the smile faded: She had been rude to him, and she needed his help. With a pang of guilt just slightly outweighed by cunning, she pretended interest: “How many children have you?”

He answered with pride. “Three sons. Ephraim, Brigham, and Heber the younger. And there are four daughters. They all earn wages under the United Order . . .”

He didn't name the girls, and Famke didn't ask. She didn't ask what he meant by the Order, either; she was much more interested in a question she had long wanted to pose him: “How many mothers?”

“One,” he answered calmly, as if he'd been asked this many times before. “Sariah, my wife of seventeen years. We have been very blessed.”

Seven children out of one woman, Famke thought, looking down at her own squeezed-in waist. What must the poor thing look like?

“In any event”—Heber was returning to the matter more immediately at hand—“we will have to arrange for your passage.” He gave a delicate cough, and Famke took advantage of it to vent a rougher one herself. “Ursula, I know you have worked for Mr. Skatkammer only a short time. Do you have the means to pay for your tickets? I am afraid that they can be quite expensive, and though we try to help as many as we can, our funds are—”

“I have almost four
Kroner
,” she said bluntly. “How much do I need?”

Heber sighed. He looked at his own hands, soft and pink as a pair of marzipan pigs. “I am afraid,” he said again, “it is one hundred and twenty crowns just to cross the ocean in steerage—with food and clean water extra—and you will need a hundred and forty-five crowns more for the rails. The train,” he added, in case she hadn't understood.

Famke echoed his sigh. “That is a lot.”

“Yes.”

There seemed to be nothing more for either of them to say. They retreated to their own thoughts.

Heber took off his glasses and polished them, mentally running through the mission budget. In their eagerness to return home, he and Erastus Mortensen had already promised aid to half the Danes they'd won over, and the missionary in Sweden (a most unpleasant country) had offered even more. The Scandinavian share of the Perpetual Emigrating Fund was exhausted. And yet—he looked at the girl again, sitting with heavy eyelids downcast and hands on her bundle—slight as their acquaintance was, he felt certain that
this
particular convert was worth extra trouble. Perhaps there was one already on his list who was less devoted, less worthy?

The clock on the mantel ticked. It was time to make a decision.

Famke decided first. She drew herself up, untied her bundle, and took something out. She clutched the object hard in her fist before laying it on the table. “So—I have this.”

Something small and shiny sat between them, blinding in a ray of light. After a moment of surprise, Heber picked it up. It was of good weight, probably real silver, and from the design he guessed it was antique. It bore a hallmark on the bottom—not one he recognized, but a clear sign of quality. He barely glanced at the design on the top, which was not fit to be examined in mixed company. He had the impression of three women, all naked, two of them standing with their rumps to the viewer. The third one, in the middle—no, no, he wouldn't look now. The women's arms were twined about each other . . . He set the thing down and off to the side.

“What is it?” he stalled. “A—an unusual object, to be sure—”

The girl burst into tears. “It is a tinderbox.”

Heber passed her his handkerchief. His eyes grew large and round as
teacups:
A silver tinderbox
. In his mind he was already wording a tactful letter to Herr Skatkammer, a plea for leniency—though of course he couldn't expect the man to take the girl back. What was Heber to do now?

“Ursula—,” he began.

“Famke,” she interrupted through her tears. “People call me Famke. Ursula is only for religion—for Catholics.”

“Famke,” he repeated, finding pleasure in the odd sound of the word. “Famke, you must tell me what you have done. Whatever you say, I shall not condemn you. I will try to help.”

Famke raised her head, startled. Could he have guessed about Albert and her fall from virtue? Would he really make her say the words—and would Mormons, these people who called themselves Saints, really accept a girl who had done the things she'd done, after she'd done them so gladly? Of course, she reminded herself, she had never done them for money—and with that thought came a sudden revelation.

“You think I have stolen this,” she accused him.

He looked at her gently, so gently that the wires of his beard released their crumbs, which fell like snow upon the table. “My dear,” he said, “haven't you? Come, you must confess so that I can help you. Perhaps we can return it before anyone notices.”

Famke blew her nose violently. She spoke in Danish. “Herr Skatkammer doesn't collect
tinderboxes
. He likes
big
things—this isn't his.”

“Then how did it come to your hand?” he asked, also in her language.

She knew it would be a mistake to say that a man, any man, had given it to her. She thought quickly and started with the truth. “I am an orphan,” she said. “I was found on the steps of the convent wrapped in a fine wool blanket.” The mere act of speaking gave her confidence, so she elaborated: “They also found this little box inside my diaper, and inside the box a slip of paper with a word,
Familjeflicka
—‘girl of good family.' The nuns told me my mother must have been the daughter of some good home who was forced to abandon me but did the best she could to give me a future. Mæka—America—is my future. This is enough to get me there, isn't it?”

As she told her story, Famke almost came to believe it herself. And the passion with which she put the amazing events together almost convinced Heber Goodhouse.

“Even half of this box is worth far more than a single ticket in steerage—,” he began.

“Then lend me the money,” she said quickly, “and keep this as security, and let me buy it back from you when I have a position again. I will take the cheapest ticket.” She knew of this kind of bargaining from listening at Herr Skatkammer's door, and she didn't want Heber to ask her to pay for another Mormon's passage with the surplus. “Please. It is all I have from my mother.”

Heber picked up the box again and hefted it in his hand. He asked, “Which orphanage did you come from?”

I go out on the poop-deck for air and surveying the [Mormon] emigrants on the deck below . . . Nobody is in ill-temper, nobody is the worse for drink, nobody swears an oath or uses a coarse word, nobody appears depressed, nobody is weeping
. . .

C
HARLES
D
ICKENS
,
T
HE
U
NCOMMERCIAL
T
RAVELLER

Famke spent that night in the attic at Mormon headquarters with some other new Saints waiting for passage. She didn't want to talk to anyone else, so she lay down on a hard pallet and used her bundle for a pillow. But sleep was impossible. The women lay elbow to elbow—girls, most of them, from villages and farms all over Denmark and Sweden—and they were too excited to be still. Their clothes rustled ceaselessly and their whispers blew around the room.

“It's a fairy tale,” she heard one of them say.

“An adventure, more like. A chance. I've been stuck away in Gilleleje, where everything smells like fish . . .”

“
Nej
, it
is
a fairy tale. We are not wealthy, but we're traveling. We will find husbands. We will have houses of our very own!”

A third voice, older, joined the conversation. “And for this we must thank the Lord, who revealed himself to a Mormon on a farm—just like the kind we are all leaving. Thank the Lord.”

The girls were silent a moment, then: “
Fanden
, I'm not going to be stuck on a farm again. I'm going to live in a city . . .”

The voices whispered far into the night, until at last Famke drifted away—willing herself to dream of savages, mountains, canvas, paint.

Meanwhile, Heber Goodhouse had written two notes: one to the sisters of the Immaculate Heart, one to Herr Skatkammer. He sent his notes by the last post, asking for a speedy reply.

He, too, found sleep elusive that night. If he were another sort of man, he might have sat down with a bottle of wine or brandy and a good cigar; but he was Mormon. Another Saint might have taken up the pen again and written to a wife; but Goodhouse had in mind that he was sailing in a few days, and he'd reach Utah before his letter would. So instead, in his room just under the attic, he paced up and down and listened to the angelic voices overhead. He could not discern Ursula's—Famke's—among them, but knowing it was a note amid the chorus renewed his sense of purpose. There would be some solution.