The Work and the Glory (54 page)

“Oh, I’ll catch you way before then.”

Nathan gave her one last look of exasperation, then clucked at the mules. She stood where she was, watching as they pulled away. She gave Matthew a quick wave, then started for Main Street, walking sedately until she turned the corner and moved out of the line of sight of her family. Immediately she changed direction slightly, angling across the street towards McBride’s dry goods store, moving very briskly now.

She stepped inside, holding her breath. If only Lydia’s father was here again, all of this would be for nothing. She felt a wave of relief as she saw Lydia behind the counter waiting on a woman and a young girl. Lydia looked up, recognized her, and smiled. “Hello, Melissa. I’ll be right with you.”

Normally a few minutes to herself in a dry goods store was Melissa’s idea of time wonderfully spent, but now she could do nothing but stand in place, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, wanting to shout at the lady and her daughter to stop dawdling over their purchase of some needles and four or five spools of thread. She was quickly losing her nerve, and with each minute the wagon was moving further south. She couldn’t wait much longer.

But finally the woman took the package Lydia handed her and called out her good-byes. Lydia came immediately over to her. “Melissa, it’s so good to see you again.” She stepped back, eyeing her dress. “Don’t you look pretty?”

“Thank you. How are you?”

“I’m fine.” The thick lashes dropped a little and there was suddenly two spots of color high on her cheeks. “How is Nathan?”

Melissa took a quick breath. “Actually that’s why I’m here.”

“Oh?”

“It’s been over a week now, you know.”

She looked up. “I beg your pardon.”

“I know how you feel, Lydia, but I think Nathan deserves an answer of some kind. Is that too much to expect?”

“An answer?”

Melissa’s breath exploded in a little burst of exasperation. “Yes. Even if you refuse to read the book, the least you could do is tell him so.”

She was genuinely perplexed. “Melissa, what are you talking about?”

Melissa searched her face, then her hand flew to her mouth. “Your father!” she cried.

“My father?”

“Yes. I gave it to your father. He said you had gone to Canandaigua with your mother.”

“Yes, I did, but—I don’t understand.”

Melissa felt a sharp pang of guilt for her snappishness. She liked Lydia. She liked her a lot, but the thoughts of her spurning Nathan had really cut into her. Now she was instantly contrite. “Nathan sent you a package,” she explained, “a gift. He asked me to bring it to you. When you weren’t here, I left it with your father. He told me he would give it to you.”

Lydia was very still and the color in her cheeks had spread. “A package for me?”

“Yes.”

“You said it was a book?”

Fear that she might be messing things up terribly now struck Melissa with great force. “I…I’d better go,” she said in a rush. “My family is going to Fayette. I’ve got to hurry to catch them.” She turned.

Lydia caught her arm. “No, wait.”

Melissa reached out and put her hand over Lydia’s, looking deep into the eyes of this woman, just two years older than she was, who she had so hoped would become her sister-in-law. “Nathan doesn’t know I’m here. Please don’t tell him.” She turned and moved swiftly to the door, leaving Lydia standing where she was. She stopped at the door’s entrance, looking back. “He loves you so much, Lydia. It isn’t right that your pa wouldn’t give it to you.”

It took Lydia almost an hour to find it. She made the mistake of assuming her father had simply hidden it from her. Only after she had searched behind every item on the shelves, through both storerooms, and up in her parent’s bedroom had she returned to the store, frustrated and angry. Then her eyes fell on the trash barrel. With a week gone by, it was nearly full. Twice she had to break off her search when customers came in. When they saw her going through the pile of garbage, they gave her very strange looks. But she did not answer their quizzical looks, nor did she wait until they were out of the store before she returned to her unpleasant task.

She knew what she was looking for. Melissa’s slip of the tongue about a book was the first clue. And Lydia had seen the advertisement the previous week, announcing the publication of the Book of Mormon. It angered her, almost as much as her father’s subterfuge. They had gone over and over this issue. If he wasn’t willing to change, why couldn’t he let it go, leave her alone? All this did was keep the wounds from healing.

The book was at the very bottom of the barrel. Some coffee grounds had settled through the paper and other clutter and stained one corner of the brown leather cover. She rubbed at it with a corner of her skirt, but the damage was permanent. Something about the ugly discoloration on the new cover stirred a different anger in her. Perhaps she too would have taken the book and thrown it into the trash barrel, but that was her choice. Not his.

She opened the inside cover and withdrew the letter. Slowly, she unfolded it and began to read. She read it again, then once more. The last paragraph again caught her eye. “If you would know how I truly feel, read the words of John…”

She walked around behind the counter where her father kept a supply of Bibles for sale. Setting the Book of Mormon and the letter aside, she thumbed through the book, finally locating the Second Epistle of John near the end of the New Testament. She glanced again at the letter. Second John, chapter one, fifth verse. Her finger ran down the page. Suddenly the words in front of her blurred as she read them. She brushed at the tears, then read them again.

Now I beseech thee, lady, not as though I wrote a new commandment unto thee, but that which we had from the beginning, that we love one another.

When the door opened and her parents walked in five minutes later, she was still standing there, Nathan’s letter in one hand, her eyes staring at the open Bible, seeing nothing.

“Lydia, we’re back—” Her father’s words were cut off in midsentence as he saw the pile in the corner.

Her mother had turned to the door to hang up her shawl, but when she turned, she gave a little cry of dismay. “Lydia, my word, what have you been doing?”

“I was looking for the package Nathan sent me,” she said evenly.

Her father’s eyes darted to the book on the counter and the letter. His Adam’s apple bobbed twice as he swallowed quickly.

“Well?” she asked, still keeping her voice level.

He stepped forward, his jaw suddenly thrusting out. “Well, what?” he demanded. “The minute I felt the weight of it and saw who it was from, I knew what it was. And I was right.”

“So you threw out
my
package?”

Her mother came forward quickly to stand next to her husband. “We’ll not have that evil thing in our house, Lydia,” she said, her chin held high. “And we don’t appreciate Nathan sending it to us, all wrapped up and hidden so we wouldn’t know what it was.”

Lydia whirled. “He didn’t send it to
us,
Mama! He sent it to me.” She turned back to her father. “Did you read the letter too, Papa?”

He wouldn’t meet her eyes, but his mouth was set in a stubborn line. “When I saw it was the Book of Mormon, I threw it in the trash. Where it belongs.”

“I want to know, Papa. Did you read my letter too?”

He still wouldn’t meet her eyes, and she had her answer. She shook her head, her face registering the bitterness of her disappointment.

“Give me the book, Lydia. It’s going back in the trash.”

She folded the letter, slipped it back inside the Book of Mormon and tucked it under her arm.

“Lydia.” His voice rose sharply.

She came out from behind the counter and walked past the two of them, not looking at either.

“Lydia! Give me the book. I’ll not have you reading it.”

“Lydia!” Her mother’s voice was shrill.

She reached behind the door and got her own shawl down and slipped it over her shoulders. “I’ll be going for a walk, Mama. I don’t know if I’ll be home before supper.”

Jessica Roundy Steed had not cried since her mother died. When she was a little girl her father’s drunken rages had terrified her, and when he had slapped her around she had cried pitiably. But she quickly learned that it only infuriated him further. “If you were a boy,” he would yell at her, “you wouldn’t bawl like a baby every time you get hurt.” By the time she was five or six, she had learned it was easier not to cry. She would duck her head and tremble before him, but there would be no tears.

Then, when Jessica was eight her mother had died in a miscarriage, her third since Jessica’s birth. Jessica could still remember the hot burning behind her eyes that welled up until she could hold it back no longer. She had thrown herself against her mother’s body, which even then was turning cold, and burst into huge, racking sobs. Somehow it had strangely touched her father and he had not ever beaten her again. But it had been the last time the tears had gotten away from her.

Now she felt that same burning, that same feeling of having a wall of water pushing to burst out of its confinement. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, feeling one tear trickle out of the corner of her eye and start down her cheek. She turned her head quickly away.

Clinton Roundy reached out and laid the back of his hand against her face. “Jess, Jess,” he said softly. “It’s all right. Everything will be all right.”

She turned her head even further, until the pillow touched her face and blotted the tear away. Then she turned back. Outside the window it was dark. “Where’s Joshua?”

Her father dropped his eyes. “He’ll be back in a bit, Jess.”

“Where is he, Pa?”

There was a deep sigh. “At one of the tables. With a bottle of whiskey.”

“He’s been there this whole time?”

“Yes. Since the doctor left.”

She turned away, her mouth tight.

“He’ll be back, Jess. It’s…well, this hit him kinda hard.”

Her head jerked around and she looked at him incredulously.

His eyes darted away, unable to meet hers. “He really wanted this baby,” he finished lamely.

“This hit
him
kinda hard?” she asked contemptuously.

Clinton Roundy, a hard man used to dealing with hard men, looked away. His face was stricken, his hands fluttered around hers, not sure whether to touch or withdraw. She made no move to lessen his discomfort. Finally he stood up. “The doctor says you need to rest. I’ll check on you in a while.”

She turned her face to the wall as he stood and bent over to give her a quick, awkward kiss on the cheek. She did not turn back as she heard the door open and shut and his footsteps fade. Then, from deep within her, a cry welled up, a cry of anguish and of anger. Oh,
Joshua! And to what bottle do I go to find my comfort?

And for the first time in nearly eighteen years, Jessica Roundy cried, the sobs shaking her body as she buried her face in the pillow, no longer trying to hold back the sorrow that tore at her soul.

Peter Whitmer Cabin, Fayette Township

Chapter Twenty-seven

The Peter Whitmer cabin was not much more than an oblong box, twenty feet wide and thirty long. It was basically only one story, though the pitched roof was high enough to provide three bedrooms above the main floor in what was called the “chambers.” The main room that served as primary living area as well as kitchen and dining room was dominated by a large stone fireplace which rose all the way to the ceiling, its mass broken only by the heavy oak beam that served as mantel.

One small painting of a winter scene in New England above the fireplace and some oilcloth curtains painted with an intricate floral design were the only concession to aesthetics. Everything else showed that this was a room designed for people and not for fashion. There were two stand-alone cupboards for the dishes and cooking utensils, a large table with leaves that folded down when not needed, eight spindle chairs, and two backless stools. A wooden bench near the west doorway had boots lined up neatly beneath it and pegs above it for coats. A small cupboard hung from the wall was reserved for Mary Whitmer’s fine china. A beautifully crafted mahogany trunk, almost a yard tall and a full five feet long, held the family’s extra bedding and linens.

A sudden thought struck Mary Ann as she looked around. Was it in a home such as this that the first church was organized? She couldn’t remember if the Bible said exactly where Jesus had first begun his church, but it certainly wasn’t done in a palace or a castle. It must have been in a fisherman’s hut, or a farmer’s cottage, maybe even out under a grove of olive trees. Somehow it thrilled her to sense the common bond of simplicity this group shared with those first disciples in Palestine.

She looked around. There were between fifty and sixty present. She let her eyes move from face to face. Like the home, these were not the show people of the world. There were no kings here, no nobility, no aristocracy of social class or wealth. They were workers for the most part—men of the soil, men who made things with their hands, women who toiled alongside their husbands as they took nature as they found her and made a good life from her.