The 19th Wife (22 page)

My homecoming in Payson was less joyous. Our separation had tried Mrs. Webb. I attempted to soothe her with an embrace, yet when I kissed her, I felt the subtle manifestation of suffering in her brittle lip. “How I missed you,” I declared.

Gilbert and I explained the plight of the emigrants and our need to return at once to their rescue. Here my old affection for Mrs. Webb rose, for she became overwhelmed with concern for her fellow man. “The poor souls,” she said. “Take them food and blankets and anything they need.” She set to work preparing baskets of relief items. I found reassurance in her compassion. I slept well that night at her side.

In the morning I prepared to return to Great Salt Lake to assist in the relief effort. My good first wife said, “I’ll be baking bread till the last of them arrive.” Her selfless outlook perhaps explains my distress at Ann Eliza’s sudden outburst.

“You promised you’d stay!”

I tried to hold the girl, but she shrugged herself away. By now Ann Eliza was twelve. The mysterious veil that falls upon a girl at the outset of maturity had descended. Her tears were those of a child. Her rage was that of a woman. I must admit, I was uncertain of what comfort I should offer.

“I have to help these people,” I said. “They’ll die if we don’t. When I return, it’ll be for good. I promise.”

This was my mistake, one that I continue to rue. I was promising one type of return, while Ann Eliza was hoping for another.

When it was time to depart I asked Elizabeth to follow me to my wagon. Across the kitchen yard Ann Eliza stood in the door frame, carefully watching her parents. I did not believe she could hear us, but in her book she records the words of our conversation accurately.

“There’s one thing I’d like to discuss before I go,” I said.

“Tell me.”

“On the subject of marriage.”

Elizabeth winced—almost imperceptibly. “What is it?”

“There is a woman, from Liverpool, who might be among the emigrants.”

“What is it about this woman I need to know?”

“If I find her, I would like—”

Are there any more difficult words for a husband to express than these?

“If she makes it to Zion, we might want to—”

“Yes?”

Then she understood. “Oh, Chauncey. You just got home.”

“I know, but this woman will need a home. If I find her, I’d like to bring her here and you two can—”

Elizabeth lifted her hand to stop me. “You may have her.”

“Elizabeth, please.”

“You want her, and you’ll have her. There’s nothing more to say.”

“I want you to know her, to approve of her.”

“I don’t want to know her.”

“Then I can’t marry her.”

“You can, and you will.”

“She might not even arrive. I might never see her again. I only wanted to raise the possibility. Elizabeth, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’ll be fine.” I tried to embrace her, but she waved me off.

I returned to Great Salt Lake with a miserable heart. I was there no more than half a day when the first hand-cart company arrived. These were the pioneering souls who had departed Iowa City in June, and now, at the end of September, they limped into Zion. Even outside Liverpool’s docks I had never seen such a tragic lot. Men with the skin blistered off their palms. Women with hair falling out from lack of nourishment. Babes suckling air, their mouths dry and blue. Goblin-eyed children floating about. The emigrants had walked more than one thousand miles, waded every river between the Mississippi and the Wasatch Range, pulled their belongings, and resorted to eating long grass and dirt when their flour ran out.

They stumbled through the city until they arrived at the gates of Temple Square. A crowd had gathered to witness their arrival. Thinking they had come to enjoy a triumphant parade, many people wore colorful clothing. They carried baskets of rose petals to shower upon the travelers. The shock on their faces said they could not understand how God—or Brigham—would let this happen to His chosen people.

Brigham emerged from his offices at the Beehive House. “Take them into your homes!” he instructed the Saints. “Bathe them! Feed them! Clothe them! Welcome them to Zion!”

At once the Saints descended upon the emigrants. Generosity to the stranger is one of our long traditions. Witnessing it still can cause a rise in my throat. I joined the effort, wading into the crowd, looking for a soul or two whom I could take back to Lydia’s cottage for a meal.

“Excuse me, sir,” a voice called out. “My sister’s not well.”

A hand petted on my sleeve. I turned to find a girl of fifteen standing beside a hand-cart. She pointed at another girl, perhaps a year older, lying in the cart at an angle that made her look all but dead.

“My sister was strong until a week back. She wanted to give up, but I told her I’d pull her along. We ate all our flour. There was nothing left. Then we ate our shoes.”

Their feet were black as coal.

“Come with me.” I pulled the hand-cart myself across the city to Lydia’s cottage.

“My name is Margaret. My sister’s Eleanor. Margaret and Eleanor Oakes.”

“Where are you from?”

“London. We were house-girls for Lady Wellingham when we heard the Prophet’s son speak. I said to my sister, ‘Let’s go to America.’ She didn’t want to, not at first. Then our situation changed and we no longer worked for Lady Wellingham. We didn’t have a home when we encountered Mr. Joseph Young a second time. I said to Eleanor, ‘Lightning doesn’t strike twice.’”

When my wife saw the anguished sisters, she set to work laying out dresses and preparing a meal of ham hocks and lima beans. She assured Margaret and Eleanor they could stay as long as they needed. “I’ll help you plant your feet,” Lydia said. I thanked my good wife for welcoming the girls. Lydia’s cottage was small, her allowance almost nothing, yet she offered Margaret and Eleanor everything she could, and more. “Maybe you’re too good for me,” I later told Lydia in private.

“Probably,” she replied.

I left the household to return to organizing the relief effort. When I returned that evening I found two sparkling young women, their complexions polished to the yellow-rosy hue for which the English are known. They sat on the rag-rug playing with Diantha, showing the child how to dress up her doll. I could see Diantha already loved Margaret and Eleanor like sisters. She kissed each on the peachy cheek.

With food and water, Eleanor had been restored to such vigor that when she saw me, she leapt to her feet to embrace me. “Thank you, Mr. Webb! You saved my life.” Her form in my arms was both soft and firm.

Margaret followed, kissing my forehead. I was aware of the wet impression lingering on my brow for some time.

This was a great deal of female attention for any one man, and I struggled to maintain my composure. If I were not wearing a beard, no doubt the girls would have seen the deep blush in my cheek. “We should thank you for putting your trust in us,” I managed.

Margaret and Eleanor returned to the rug, helping Diantha assemble a puzzle. Lydia took up her sewing in her rocker, and I joined them in my chair with my mother’s Bible. Yet I found, with such female splendor before me, I could not concentrate on the words. It was as if I were trying to read without my spectacles. My mind wandered elsewhere: to Mrs. Cox, wherever she may be. To my sweet Lydia in her rocker—how much she had transformed from girl to woman since she came into our house in Nauvoo. To Mrs. Webb in Payson. I loved her as no other, but that love, over the years, had evolved from romantic to respectful—an evolution that might be expected in long relations between man and woman.

I thought of all this, but foremost in my mind were the two girls on the carpet, their slim legs folded beneath them. Eleanor had a slightly longer throat, I noticed. Margaret, although younger, was fuller in the breast. I had divined, through careful questioning, that she had come into trouble in London. It was for this reason Lady Wellingham had dismissed them from her household. Pondering her fate, I became overwhelmed with desire. I wish I could write that I looked upon these girls as a father looks upon his children. That had been my intention when I led them to my wife’s cottage. But my intention had exploded into a terrible passion, one that I immediately recognized.

“I think I shall go to bed,” I announced.

“But Webby!” cried Eleanor. “So soon?”

The sisters unfolded their legs, like colts lifting themselves from a bed of straw, to kiss me, a pair of lips on each whiskery side. The sensation was so great that I felt bolted into my chair. Many minutes passed before I could unlatch myself. I was slow to see the anger in Lydia’s narrowed eyes. “I thought you said you were retiring,” she finally said.

Yet I could not sleep. My ears remained pricked to the sounds of the sisters—their cheering when the puzzle was complete; their feet upon the floorboards; the water of their ablutions; their whispers when they were in bed and believed no one could hear. What were they discussing? Was it possible they were speaking of me?

In the morning, I rode to Payson. I burst into Mrs. Webb’s house, my old heart thumping in my throat, prepared to make my speech—when she stopped me. My Elizabeth! Her face is always honest and good! She never masks her intentions! Disguises her heart! And yet I had descended upon her with a request that would require she deceive herself.

“Did the woman from England arrive?” she said.

“Yes! Or I should say no. No sight of Mrs. Cox. I’m frightened for her. Oh, Elizabeth, you should see the poor creatures who arrived yesterday. Barely alive. And behind them on the trail are the bodies of who knows how many dead. It was a terrible day.”

Pity appeared in her eyes. “You shouldn’t be here with me,” she said. “You should go and help as many as you can.”

“I will, shortly, but first, there’s something I need to tell you. Ask you, that is.”

She peered into my eyes, searched about, and located the lust and greed. As she recognized it, her face broke apart into shards of woe. “Another wife?”

“No, not another. Or I should say, instead. Instead of Mrs. Cox.”

“Chauncey, listen to yourself.”

“I know. I can hardly believe I’m saying these things. But something’s happened. And I know that this is what I must do.”

“Who is she?”

“You should have seen her. She was a waif! She has no one.”

“Chauncey. How many is it going to be?” My wife turned away from me and began to weep into her own shoulder. “I never thought you were this kind of man.”

“She needs me. She needs a home.”

“Where will this end?”

“Elizabeth, we both know this is our duty to God.”

I had probed Mrs. Webb’s most tender spot. She could not deny that the Prophet had made this clear. Her faith was always pure, while I layered mine with expediency. I am ashamed of many things, but none so much as when I excused my passions in the name of God.

“What’s her name?”

“Her name?”

“You don’t know?”

“Miss Oakes.”

“Miss Oakes? You might want to ask her given name before you marry her.”

Elizabeth returned to her kitchen chores. Her restraint of tongue deepened my already profound respect for her. Were I not blinded by my desire, her noble actions would have caused me to reconsider my next step.

I should note that I was not aware that Ann Eliza was behind the curtain during this conversation. Later she told me she had overheard it, but I never believed her, for more than once she had resorted to fabrication in order to manipulate my feelings. Yet in
The 19th Wife
she repeats this encounter with a recollection that all but matches my own. She describes Elizabeth’s pain as a spade of sorrow sharp enough to hollow out the soul.

The question remained: Which Miss Oakes would I marry? Would it be Eleanor, with her affectionate habit of calling me Webby? Or Margaret, with her calming voice that suggested, to me, at least, the sensibility of a young woman who knows much about the world? Each had her unique merits and appeal.

I invited the older girl, Eleanor, on a stroll through Temple Square. She appeared for our assignation in Lydia’s finest walking dress, the scalloped neckline revealing a swath of flesh I found impossible to ignore. To think God had nearly permitted this creature to perish!

“Tell me, have you heard anything about celestial marriage?”

“Do you mean polygamy?”

I nodded.

“Same as in the Bible?”

“That’s right. No different than the forefathers.”

“Back in England, Brother Young was asked about it at one of his meetings. He denied it, he did. Told a hundred people nothing of the sort existed, not in his father’s Church. Most people believed him. Not me. I said to Margaret, ‘I know they go around marrying this girl and that, it’s what they believe.’ Margaret said, ‘Is that right?’ And I said, ‘It is. I’ve heard some women speak of it. They say it’s not so bad. In the kitchen four hands are better than two. That’s what they said.’ Margaret said, ‘Ellie, don’t be silly.’ But I said, ‘It’s not silly if it’s true.’”

“So you understand it?”

“I suppose I do. A man takes a wife, and then another. That’s all there is to it, right?”

“Yes, and we call it celestial marriage.”

“Do you? Quite a fancy name for buggering all over the place.”

I was having trouble discerning her opinion on the matter and ventured forth with the necessary delicacy. “The Lord revealed this truth to Joseph Smith.”

“Did He? Then it must be true. What about you? How many have you got?”

“I have two wives.”

“Sister Lydia here, she’s what? The first or the second?”

“She’s my second wife.”

“Where’s the first?”

“South of here.”

“Does she mind sharing you like that?”

“She knows it’s part of her salvation. My first wife, Sister Elizabeth, is the most devout woman I know.”

“She isn’t jealous?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Are there any others?”

“At the moment, no.”

Eleanor chuckled and poked my breast. “Why, Webby! Do you plan on taking another? Is that what this is all about? You want me for your third wife? Is that why you asked me out for a stroll? Oh, Mr. Webb, you’re quite the sneak, aren’t you?”