The Sister Wife (30 page)

June 28, 1842

B
ronwyn twirled in front of the mirror in the brides' room, checking the back of the elegant gown loaned to her by Brigham's wife Mary Ann. Pale blue with ivory lace, it set off her sapphire eyes, her luxurious ebony hair, and skin the color of English clotted cream—though she would never admit to thinking of her physical appearance with such romantic terms.

She almost laughed as she twirled again, enjoying her image in the mirror, skirts and petticoats billowing. She leaned closer to the mirror, pleased to see the sparkle of merriment in her eyes, the glow of anticipation in her expression. After all, it was the day she would be sealed to Gabe for eternity. Why not think of herself with a romantic notion or two?

A twinge of guilt pressed against her heart, but she quickly turned her thoughts to Gabe and the look she hoped to see in his eyes as they knelt, facing each other, and said their vows…which made the feelings of guilt return.

Mary Rose. Her dearest friend in the world. How could it be possible that she was about to become Gabe's second wife when she loved his first wife like a sister?

She pinched her cheeks until they were the hue of wild roses, thinking about the plan she and Mary Rose had devised to please the Church leaders, keep Gabe in good standing, and allow her to remain part of the family—just as she and Griffin and Little Grace always had been.

It would work, she told herself, drawing in a deep breath. It had to. For Mary Rose's sake, especially. It worried her that Mary Rose hadn't seemed well earlier that morning, and she planned to pull her aside and reassure her that never would she try to supplant her in Gabe's affections.

She only hoped that Mary Rose would arrive with Gabriel well before the ceremony started so they could spend those few moments alone.

She backed away from the mirror as other brides arrived to ready themselves for the ceremony. As the door opened and closed, the jangle and rattle of horse-drawn carriages and the low bursts of chatter carried toward her.

As the women joined her, it became apparent that the excited voices that had drifted in from outside came from the grooms, not the brides. Most of the women appeared subdued, some of the younger ones even frightened.

As the time neared for all to have arrived, Bronwyn went to the door of the meetinghouse and peered out at the street. Carriages and horses were lined up, empty of their passengers, but there was no sign of Gabe and Mary Rose.

One of the brides, a sad-looking young woman with red-rimmed eyes and trembling hands, spotted Bronwyn and slipped away from a group of three brides.

“I heard you're marrying Brother MacKay,” she said.

Bronwyn couldn't help the little smile of pride that tugged the corner of her lips upward. She nodded.

“I've noticed him before. He's a fine-looking man.”

“'Tis true.” Still standing at the door, Bronwyn let her gaze
drift away from the woman's probing scrutiny back to the street, thinking about Gabe, how she'd admired him from the first moment she saw him, long before he and Mary Rose fell in love.

That first moment…the day they boarded the
Sea Hawk
in Liverpool and Coal climbed the topmast. He'd perched there, frightening the wits out of every passenger and seaman on deck. Gabe had climbed up after him as if he'd been born with the strength and humor needed to rescue errant boys.

She could never have imagined how their lives would intertwine. Griffin, the man she would love forever, had been at her side, and they were expecting their first child. She didn't imagine then the loss that would soon break her heart. Neither could she have foreseen that one day—this day—she would become Gabriel MacKay's bride, his second. And that his first wife, Mary Rose, would have become the dearest friend she'd ever known. Oh, Mary Rose, hurry…! She couldn't walk down the aisle without her. She hadn't asked, but she wanted Mary Rose to walk with her to Gabriel, their hands clasped in a silent agreement of sisterhood and faithfulness to their plan.

“Where is he?” The woman interrupted Bronwyn's thoughts. “Your Gabriel, I mean,” she added, noticing Bronwyn's confused expression. “Shouldn't he be here by now?”

She snapped back to the present. Her Gabriel? “He…he should have been here by now. He felt things were getting awkward with Mary Ro—with his first wife and that it might be easier if…” Taking a deep breath, she began again. “Brigham came for Little Grace and me, and his wife Mary Ann helped me dress for the wedding at their home. She's keeping Little Grace for me while I—” She stopped to listen as she heard another carriage round the corner.

She flew to the door and stepped outside, just in time to see it rattle by without stopping.

She turned when Brigham came up behind her, his forehead furrowed in a deep frown. He had no need to ask the obvious question. Bronwyn shook her head. “I don't know what's keeping Brother Gabriel.”

Brigham pulled out a pocket watch. “It's not like him to be late.” He gave Bronwyn a piercing look. “I suggest you return to the brides' room and await your groom. We'll start as soon as Brother Gabriel and Sister Mary Rose arrive.”

“I'll need a few minutes to talk to Sister Mary Rose before we begin.”

“Unless they arrive soon, there won't be time.” He smiled. “There will be plenty of time afterward for sister-wife talk, believe me, Sister Bronwyn.”

He took her elbow to guide her back into the meetinghouse, reached for the door, and opened it so she could enter.

Bronwyn stopped just short of entering.

Mary Rose
.

It took only a half heartbeat for Bronwyn's mind to whirl with the possibilities. The pregnancy. The swollen, distraught look of Mary Rose that morning. The sounds of weeping in the night.

What if…? She didn't complete the thought, remembering the weariness like unto death itself the morning before Little Grace was born.

Bronwyn took a step backward, almost knocking Brigham off balance; then she turned, gathered her full skirts, and hurried toward the street. “I'm going to find them,” she called over her shoulder. “You can start without us.”

She didn't bother to stop to ask for approval—or even to see what was surely a look of stunned disapproval on Brigham's face. Instead, she turned her attention to the unattended carriages and wagons lined up in front of the meetinghouse.

She made a beeline toward a lone horse tethered to a hitching
post just beyond the last carriage—a gleaming black beast with an arched neck, sleek head, and intelligent eyes. As she placed a foot in the stirrup and swung her leg over the hand-tooled leather and silver saddle, her dress bunching up to her knees, she swallowed a smile. She would have laughed if she hadn't been so worried about Mary Rose. In the old days, she and Mary Rose would have giggled together over such a sight.

She heard a familiar voice shouting from the front of the meeting house. Without a glance toward the man, she leaned close to the horse's neck. “Go, boy,” she cried, pressing her heels into his flanks. She hoped the beast would respond to the voice of someone other than his master—especially since it was his master doing the shouting, commanding him to halt.

But the horse—the pride of Brigham's stables—appeared to be quite content with Bronwyn on his back. He took off like a fox after prey, and as soon as they were on the open road, she let him take the lead. He seemed to sense the urgency and galloped with hurricane force toward the MacKay farm.

As they raced along, Bronwyn leaning low over the horse's neck, she watched the road ahead, hoping to see the telltale dust of a carriage coming toward her. She had no desire to return to the meetinghouse to go through with the marriage, but she wanted to know her friend was well. Right now, that was all that mattered.

They reached the top of a small knoll, and in the distance lay the farm. She slowed the horse and took in the scene, searching for anything that seemed amiss. The scene was bathed in sunlight, just as it had been earlier that morning. Even with the warmth of the sun on her shoulders, a shiver traveled up her spine.

Something was wrong. The house was too quiet. Where were the children? And Cordelia, who'd offered to watch them during the marriage festivities?

Her mouth went dry, and her heart thudded with fear for her friend as she urged the horse to a gallop once more.

Gabe must have heard the thundering hoofbeats. He ran from the house, and even before she reached him, she could see his pale, disheveled appearance. And the blood on his shirt.

Bile rose in her throat as she drew back hard on the reins. The beast halted and reared. She patted his neck to calm him and then dismounted. Gabe ran to her and grasped her hands. His expression told her more than words ever could.

“Mary Rose?” she whispered.

His voice choked. “How—” His gaze shot to the horse, then back to her. “How did you know to come? She needs you…. We need you.”

“Is she upstairs?” She didn't want to cry, so she kept her focus on his eyes instead of his blood-stained shirt. “How bad is it?”

“Go to her. Quickly.” He squeezed her hands before letting go. When she glanced at the panting horse, he added, “I'll take care of him. Just go to her, please.”

Lifting her skirts, Bronwyn raced up the front steps.

 

Mary Rose's face was the same shade of white as the pillow slip beneath her head. Her closed eyelids didn't flicker, and her soft breathing was almost inaudible.

Bronwyn bent over the bed and gently took Mary Rose's face between both hands. “Dearest one,” she whispered, “can you hear me?” There was no response. She embraced her friend, kissed her cheek, and whispered again, “Mary Rose, it's Bronwyn. I'm here for you.”

“She fell,” Gabe said from the doorway. “She's been unconscious since. I don't think she even knows about the…” His voice choked, and he walked across the room. “I did the best I could…but the infant was so small, so delicate. He couldn't even take his first breath. I tried…I even tried to clear his throat with my fingers. Breathe air into him.” He had reached the bed and came around to kneel beside it opposite Bronwyn. He reached for Mary
Rose's hand, kissed it, and, still holding it, dropped his head.

His voice was ragged as he whispered, “Forgive me, my love. I brought this on you…on us. Our baby…Too much to forgive…Oh, Mary Rose…”

Behind him, in the cradle he'd spent weeks working on in the barn, lay the baby's body, wrapped in a soft patchwork quilt that Bronwyn had sewn to celebrate the child's birth.

Bronwyn left Mary Rose's side and moved toward the cradle. She sat down beside it, her soiled and wrinkled skirt billowing around her. She gathered the baby into her arms, bringing its still-warm body close to her heart. For a moment, she just knelt there, at first rocking and humming a lullaby from her childhood, and then covering the baby's face with kisses, just as she knew Mary Rose would do.

The sting of tears rose in the back of her throat. Mary Rose had been there for her to help save the life of Little Grace, but while Mary Rose lay suffering, while her baby tried to make its way into the world, Bronwyn was primping in front of the mirror in the brides' room. She dropped her head and wept silently.

She opened the blanket and, holding the wee child in her lap, she touched each finger and toe, gently smoothed the baby's head, and examined his tiny seashell ears.

“I'll need a pan of warm water,” she said to Gabe after a few minutes. “And some clean rags. It's time to prepare him.”

Still on his knees, Gabe turned to her, his expression raw with grief. “I was so busy, first trying to save him, then so afraid I would lose Mary Rose,” he said, “that I didn't get a good look at him.”

She swallowed hard. “Would you like…to hold him?”

She found the answer in his eyes and laid the child in his arms. Gabe drew in a shuddering breath and drew the child close. He bowed his head, touching his forehead to his son's. His sobs seemed to come from someplace deep within his being, a sound almost unbearable to hear.

Bronwyn moved closer and wrapped her arms around him, her embrace encompassing both father and son. She laid her head against Gabe's heaving chest and found unexpected comfort as he leaned into her arms.

February 1846

Bronwyn laughed with the children when they made their confessions and briefly wondered what Gabe would say when he found out.

Her laughter was short-lived.

Enid rode up just as Mary Rose flicked the reins over the oxen to urge them through the snow.

“I overheard the children,” she said, “and I'm surprised that you allowed them to disobey their father.”

Mary Rose ignored her, as usual, and popped the whip over the backs of the oxen. They plodded forward, and Enid easily kept pace—and kept talking.

“It's occurred to me lately that some of the same techniques that I use with horses might also work with children.”

There was a burst of laughter from the back of the wagon. Cordelia rolled her eyes, and Mary Rose pressed her lips together.

“It's hardly the same thing,” Bronwyn said with a sigh. “And as I recall, you have no children of your own and thus no experience with such things.”

Enid winced and looked down, obviously hurt by the words. Bronwyn immediately wished she could take them back. But for months, Enid had made no secret of the fact that she wanted Gabe to marry her and that when he did, she planned to take over the household as first wife.

The giggles continued in the back of the wagon, which lessened the seriousness of the moment—and also pointed out the
truth of Enid's comment: the children did need a firmer hand. Bronwyn had caught Mary Grace imitating Enid more than once, had corrected her at least a dozen times for that and other offences. Yet from the sound of it, her daughter was at it again, entertaining the others with her newfound ability to mimic everyone from Brigham to Cordelia. It didn't help that Cordelia was delighted and actually gave her pointers.