Far Away Home (20 page)

Chapter
20

Aislynn’s
eighteenth birthday celebration was small, with only her closest friends
attending. It was an exciting occasion. Although it marked the end of Tim’s
guardianship, she liked the idea of being officially independent.

Her gifts were
varied. Each one touched her with its special meaning. Tim gave her a brooch
with a tiny, but genuine pearl. He said it reminded him of “their ocean.”
Johnny gave her gold earrings he had Moran purchase in San Francisco. With
Johnny’s assistance, No Nose had fashioned a silver cross for a necklace.

Moran’s gift was
an offer to take her, Johnny and Tim to a concert at the Mormon Tabernacle. It
had a choir in residence that Moran claimed was world-renowned. Aislynn had not
seen Salt Lake City. When she considered the offer, she realized she had not
ventured farther than Ogden in nearly a year. The affair was to be formal, and
Tim and Johnny balked at the expense of purchasing appropriate clothes. Murphy
noticed Aislynn’s disappointment and suggested she could attend with Moran and
himself as chaperones.

Tim asked, “What
will you wear?”

“I’m coming out
of mourning, and I am having a fancy dress made for the Golden Spike
Celebration. I could hurry along Madame Dijon, the dressmaker.”

“We’ll talk
about it,” Tim concluded, throwing his glance toward Johnny.

Aislynn surveyed
the exchange of looks and asserted, “I can make my own decisions.” 

Johnny and Tim
sent her twin, blank stares. Aislynn did not know if they had discussed the
transfer of power or if it were one more of those unspoken pacts men make
between themselves that are not always shared with women. Nevertheless, the
hand-over had been made, and it was clear she was expected to discuss her plans
with Johnny.
Fine, it’s easier to get my way with Johnny than with Tim.

Salt Lake City
sat like an oasis in the desert. Its wide streets were lined with the winter
skeletons of full-grown trees. The white houses were clean and fenced. Brother
Brigham’s vision of a glorious city was being carved out of the Utah sand and
stone.

The hotel stood
five stories high. The lobby was a huge atrium rising to a colorful stained
glass window in the roof. Brass railings trimmed the balconies that tiered down
the top four floors. A massive, oak reception desk, an oak bar, an enormous,
marble fireplace and the brass-railed staircase formed a circle around the
lobby.

Moran sent
Aislynn straight to her room with instructions to rest for an hour. “At four,”
he explained, “a maid will come with your bath and a light supper. Be down in
this lobby by six.”

She sprang up
the stairs, excited by the splendor. Her room did not disappoint her. It had
large windows looking over the street, with plush velvet curtains the color of
red wine. A thick carpet stretched across the entire floor. With brass twined
into a shiny headboard, the bed rivaled the one standing in Moran’s bedroom. A
dresser and washstand completed the furnishings. Aislynn fell back on the bed
and laughed out loud. The ceiling displayed a painting centered on two naked
angels embracing passionately with small, winged cherubs flying happily around
them.
Strange place for a painting, but there is just no accounting for
taste.

Aislynn awoke
when the maid knocked on the door. Aislynn allowed the girl to lead her through
her toilette, assuming she had assisted other ladies and knew how to proceed.
The girl worked Aislynn’s hair into a style she had seen in
Godey’s Ladies
Book
.

“What beautiful
things. It seems almost a sin to cover them,” the maid said, opening a box and
displaying undergarments Aislynn had not ordered.

Aislynn wondered
for a moment if she should just return them to the box, but the girl was
pulling the scanty chemise over her head. Aislynn decided she would work
something out with Madame Dijon when she returned. Corsetted, stockinged and
shoed, Aislynn watched the girl open the largest box. Gently, the maid unfolded
a bright green gown. She held it up for Aislynn to see. The dress was nearly
the color of her eyes. The taffeta hung long and straight with a bit of
gathering in the back. Two straps at the shoulders held up what little there
was of the bodice.

Her jaw fell,
and her heart sank. Dijon had sent the wrong dress. Her mind scrambled for a
moment. She had only her worn skirt and shirtwaist. Defeat was evident. “Go
tell Mr. Moran I can’t go.”

“Why?”

“This is not my
dress.” She tried to contain her disappointed tears.

With two quick
raps, Moran swung open the door.

Aislynn grasped
at her dressing gown and said, “You can’t come in here.”

Moran shot her
an angry scowl, and growled at her, “What is the trouble?”  

His tone
compelled her to explain.

Moran reached
for the gown and held it up. “It’s the gown I had made for you to wear
tonight.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want a
repeat of our Christmas party problem.”

“But it’s so …”
Aislynn’s hands stretched across her chest.

He looked down
his nose at her. “I can assure you I know more about fashion than a girl who
has spent the last year in a mining camp dressed in mourning.”

She looked at
the neckline and decided to stand her ground. She leaned toward him and cried,
“I’ll look like a whore.”

His eyes
narrowed into blackness. He raised his voice. “Do you think I’d dress you up
like a whore and present you to my associates?”

She considered
his perspective and shook her head.

He straightened
and clenched his teeth as he stared at her for a second. Moran turned away from
her and laid the dress on the bed. Calmer, he asked, “Why do you always think
the worst of me?”

Chastised, she
whispered, “Sorry.”

With a
frustrated sigh, he grumbled, “You have five minutes to wiggle into that dress,
or I’ll be back to stuff you into it myself.”

Aislynn
descended the stairs and found Murphy and Moran lounging at a table in the
lobby having drinks. Murphy stood and exclaimed that Aislynn was the most
beautiful girl west of the Mississippi.

“Are you saying
there's a better looking girl in the east?” she demanded. With a sly smile, her
eyes raked Murphy. “You are quite stunning yourself.”

Moran stood and
frowned, “You can fawn over each other in the carriage. I don’t like to be
late.”

The Tabernacle
glowed under huge chandeliers. Two wide aisles, radiating from a stage that
stretched across the front of the vast room, separated long rows of wooden
pews. Murphy slid into a pew, and Aislynn followed with Moran pushing in next
to her. The Tabernacle was an enormous building with a white, barrel-vaulted
ceiling, reminiscent the morning sky on the prairie. As God woke all the
wondrous noises of nature, here, under this canopy, in this man-made shrine to
sound, Aislynn listened to humans creating their own version of heavenly music.
The mighty voices nearly pressed the air from the room. She could feel their
strength penetrating her body, swelling her with emotion, and nearly bringing
her to tears. She had never heard such sounds. They aroused feelings she
thought might be indecent to experience in public. Between songs, Moran leaned
close and whispered pieces of information to her, “It took railroad engineering
to support the great ceiling.” “The acoustics in this building are so perfect,
you can whisper in the front and be heard in the back.” “All the choir members
are Mormons, and they practice and perform voluntarily.”

After the
performance, they stood in the aisle while Moran presented her to a number of
men. Murphy found an old friend and asked Aislynn if she would mind his absence
at the dinner. Aislynn told him not to worry as she climbed into the carriage.

The leather seat
felt stiff and cold through the thin fabric of her gown. The wrap Moran
provided was velvet lined with taffeta, no barrier against the frigid March
night air. She hugged herself and sank into the corner of the dimly lit coach.
Moran sat opposite, studying her with a satisfied grin. His stare made her
stomach flutter. Despite the chilly carriage, Aislynn began to feel
uncomfortably warm. It annoyed her he could cause such discomposure with a
look. She reminded herself to breathe naturally. Although she attempted to
stare him down, she was sure she knew how a mouse felt being watched by a cat.
Exasperated, she asked, “What is it?”

“What?”

“You seem
awfully pleased with yourself.”

“I am.” He
lounged against his seat, still smiling at her.

“Are you going
to tell me why?”

“Men are very
competitive about money, houses, women.”

“Am I supposed
to be flattered?”

“In this
situation, your opinion is irrelevant.” 

“I don’t believe
they would be very impressed if they knew our situation,” she teased.

He laughed,
“Let’s save that discussion for later. We’re dining with Brigham Young and his
favorite wife, Amelia.”

“Talk about
competition. How many wives does he have?”

“I believe
number twenty-seven will be added next month.”

Aislynn’s mouth
fell open.

“Close your
mouth and remember there are some things you don’t question. I believe you are
going to like Brother Brigham. I have a great deal of respect for him. He’s an
extraordinary leader, an accomplished administrator and one heck of a
businessman. He raised this beautiful city out of the desert.”

“Apparently,
he’s a very busy man,” Aislynn giggled.

Young
entertained at the Beehive House. It was a sturdy stone structure, solidly
built, with a long hall for entertaining and a series of bedrooms for wives and
their children tucked discreetly behind closed doors.

Moran and
Aislynn entered the dark-paneled foyer and were led up the spiraling stairs.
She gave her wrap to a young girl sitting inside a window on the landing.
Aislynn peered into the window and found several children strewn among the
coats, rolling and laughing. “They call it the Fairy Castle Room,” Moran
explained, “They get to inspect their father’s guests and poke fun at us.”

Moran handed her
up the stairs into a long room elaborately decorated with raspberry-red
brocatelle drapes and velvet upholstery. A table for fourteen was set up on the
far end, dripping with white linens and lace. At the entrance, a pretty, young
woman floating in self-confidence stood next to an older robust man. Amelia
looked past Aislynn and said, “Well, Mr. Moran we are so pleased to see you.”
Moran introduced Aislynn and the young woman surveyed Aislynn as she dipped
into a curtsy.

“How nice to
make your acquaintance,” she said, again smiling past Aislynn, nodding approval
to Moran.

Brother Brigham
headed the table. Aislynn was seated opposite Moran between a Mormon church
elder and a Christian banker. The table conversation centered on the Utah
Central Railroad. Aislynn listened with polite detachment until she heard her
name.

“Miss Denehy, I
understand I should thank you for assisting with my venture.”

Aislynn’s eyes
flew open, seeking an explanation from Moran.

Young continued,
“It’s not frequent that Gentiles help us, and I do not want your kindness to go
unrecognized.”

Aislynn smiled
and nodded, “You’re welcome, sir.”

“We don’t have
many friends among your people. Gentiles object to the way we live our lives.”
Aislynn could feel her stomach tighten anticipating a question she did not want
to answer. “What do you think of our institution of multiple marriage?”  

Silence fell
over the table, and her eyes met Moran’s. She leaned into Young’s view. “Well,
sir, under the freedom of religion amendment, I think, as long as it’s
voluntary and no one gets hurt, you should be allowed to practice your religion
as you see fit.”

“But your
government says it contradicts the laws of the land,” Young challenged her.

“If there is to
be separation of church and state, I don’t believe they should make rules
regulating religions.”

The men at the
table grinned and nodded. Young pressed her, “Did Moran tell you to say that?”

Aislynn looked
at Moran and giggled. “No sir, no one tells me what to say.”

Young laughed,
“I know a young woman like you.” He smiled at Amelia, who sat adoringly at his
side.

Amelia asked
Aislynn if she were a suffragette.

“I do believe
women should have the vote.” Aislynn’s eyes caught Moran’s smirk.

“Oh, you’re the
young lady who asked for the vote in Moran’s camp.” Brigham remembered, “Well,
I think we’ll be extending the vote to women in our Territory.”

Brother Roberts
added, “Of course, we expect our women to vote as their menfolk direct them, in
support of polygyny.”

Emboldened,
Aislynn asked, “What is the advantage of having the vote if you don’t have the
right to choose what you’re voting for or against?”

“Young lady,
women must follow the dictates of men.” He paused and frowned at her, “Perhaps
that’s why you are not married.”

“Or, perhaps,
I’m looking for a man who is not a dictator,” she scoffed.

Young’s laugh
rolled across the table. “Take heed, Moran. There’s a warning there.”

Aislynn could
feel Moran’s eyes but chose to move food around her plate rather than look at
him.

The carriage was
dark. Either the lamp had been dimmed or the oil consumed. She settled on the
cold seat, shivering. Moran lowered himself next to her.

“Cold?” he asked
softly. He brought his arm up and draped his cape around her shoulders, drawing
her to him. She could feel his warmth through her gown and something close to
panic surging through her body.