The 19th Wife (27 page)

What followed was a nearly two-hour depiction of Joseph Smith’s life, the angel Moroni’s visit to his bedroom, the discovery of the golden plates, &etc. The final scene showed Smith’s murder in the Carthage jailhouse and the Mormon people wandering without Prophet or leader. But just when all seemed lost, the Apostles appeared on the stage, banished Satan to his rightful fiery hole, and pronounced Brigham Young the new Prophet. Brigham Young would lead his Saints to Zion and redemption. In the red deserts of America, Salvation would be achieved.

The end.

Or so I thought. The Apostles, playing themselves, told us to kneel in a circle, led us in promises and declarations. We raised our arms into the air. The women vowed total submission to their husbands. The men vowed never to marry a wife without permission from the Church. Together we promised to obey the Church’s authority fully. We swore to take retribution for Joseph Smith’s murder and to defend the life of Brigham Young, even if it meant shedding blood. Finally we swore never to reveal the secrets of the Endowment Ceremony. Punishment for doing so would be disembowelment, followed by one’s tongue and heart knifed out of the body and burned. The Apostles informed us of this penance with such menace and certainty that each of us shook with fear.

At last at three o’clock in the afternoon the ceremony was over. While the others wept, I simply sat on the bench, spent and empty, but not in the way I had anticipated. Of my illness, I was certain I had never been closer to the grave.

That night my mother and I slept at Lydia’s cottage. I lay awake upon the bed, unable to fall off, while she slumbered beside me. With each breath she emitted a small purr and her eyelids fluttered with dreams. I envied her peace of mind and the certainty of her faith. I longed to know what she knew; and to take comfort in it. I thought about my long day at the Endowment House. Why was I different from the other Saints—all good souls with open hearts. From where had my skepticism come? I tried to fall asleep, but my mind ran with the images from the ceremony. Each time I recalled a detail—Eve, with her beautiful hair; or Satan, hopping on one foot—something inside me provided commentary that was neither sincere nor serious.
Why is Eve wearing a horse-hair wig? I didn’t realize Satan knew the Scottish jig.
I became convinced I possessed a wicked soul, and that I was alone in my wretchedness. I would die soon, I concluded, and I was to blame.

After a while I could hear my father and Lydia above in her bedroom. They were talking about Diantha’s performance in school. “She can recite the Articles of Faith all the way through.” Their voices softened, then went silent altogether, and I heard the familiar creak of the bed, the sigh of the feather mattress as it absorbed two people embraced as one. Then nothing—the effortful silence that was so familiar in a house of many wives.

I got up and went outside. It was a clear night and the smoke tree was in silhouette along the fence. The smoke from the chimney was thick in the crisp air. The mountains rose blackly over the Valley and the three-quarter moon cast a silver net over everything. I sat on the stump by the water pump, looking back at Lydia’s little house. A candle burned in her room, and after some time my father appeared in her window. He looked out over his land and the houses beyond. I am sure he did not see me, even though the moonlight caused my robe to glow. He stood for a long time, as if something grave were on his mind. Then with his tongue he wetted his finger and his thumb and, in a gesture I could not see, snuffed out the candle. The window went black. The house was now dark and after a little while the smoke from the chimney thinned and died out. A poet might have thought the world had come to an end but for the wind turning the tree’s early leaves.

In the morning I woke to find my illness in retreat. There was no way to explain it, although many people tried.

THE
19
TH WIFE

CHAPTER TEN

The Prophet Enters My Life

Sometime after my recovery, I acquired my first beau. Finley Free was a sensitive, artistic young man who liked to sketch me in my mother’s garden. By chance he was the younger brother of one of Brigham’s favorite wives, Emmeline, who by most accounts was Number 10, although, in truth, I believe that number discounts the existence of a few wives Brigham married and quickly abandoned for reasons we shall never know.

Our friendship was still in its early days when Brigham summoned my mother to his office at the Beehive House. As President and Prophet of the Church, and leader of the Utah Territory, he was indeed a busy man. My mother could only presume that the matter to be discussed was of grave concern. Yet when she sat opposite his desk, Brigham, in a serious voice more suitable for lawyering than meddling, advised my mother to break off the relationship between myself and Finley.

My mother came to my defense. “All he does is sketch her sitting on the fence.”

“Sister, trust me. The boy is weak in the soul.”

Brigham’s interference was so unusual, and delivered in such dire tone, that my mother had no reason but to believe it was based on informed opinion. When she relayed it to me, I was equally puzzled, for I knew Brigham to be many things, but one was not a liar.

The next day I met three friends at Goddard’s Confectionery on Main Street. Although Katherine, Lucinda, and I had gathered for cake and conversation only three days prior, enough had passed in the interval to fill several hours with the important details of our lives. My news of course concerned the Prophet.

“I always liked Finley,” said Katherine, a talented friend known for her skill in hair-art. Her interest in hair started with her own yellow locks, which she was always stroking and plaiting and otherwise playing with. “Why would Brigham want to protect you from him?”

“It’s perfectly obvious,” said Lucinda. “He’s jealous.”

“Jealous?” cried Katherine. “Of Ann Eliza?”

“Don’t be daft. Of Finley.” Lucinda was a quick girl with a perfect memory. She could recall every Sunday outfit I had worn since I was twelve.

“Why would the Prophet be jealous of Finley Free? Does he want to draw?”

“Katherine, you know I love you, but sometimes I wonder what goes on in that head of yours. Ann Eliza, explain it.” Lucinda turned in my direction and flipped over her hand in a gesture that said—
Tell her.

“The only thing I can think of is he somehow learned that the Endowment Ceremony has left me with quite a few questions.”

“Ladies, when will you open your eyes?” Lucinda looked to me and Katherine and back. Her grayish eyes had the silver sheen of a looking glass, and I could see something of my own reflection in them. “He doesn’t want some boy flipping around your yard.”

“Why not?”

“Honestly, do I have to do all the thinking around here? He wants to marry you himself.”

“
Marry
me?”

“I’m afraid so.”

An extended clatter of female speculation followed—of how Brigham would propose, what number wife I would become, of whether or not he would establish me in my own house, as he does with his favorite wives, or encamp me in the Lion House.

“This is silly. If he were to ask me, which he won’t, but if he were, I would say thank you very much but no. I’m going to marry a man who wants one wife.”

“Good luck,” said Lucinda.

Katherine proved equally supportive. “No one says no to Brigham Young.”

Only a few days thereafter, while I was walking home in the afternoon, the Presidential Carriage appeared out of nowhere, pulling up alongside me on the road. I was so surprised by its appearance, I almost did not recognize Brigham in the driver’s seat. “Quite a walk for you, Sister. May I drive you home?”

It was unusual to find the President driving alone, for typically his revered coachman, Isaac, a former servant to Joseph Smith, drove him about the city. I wish I could report that I declined the invitation and continued on my way, but I accepted his extended hand and settled in next to him on the leather bench.

Once on the road he said, “Now I understand you’ve been going around telling people you would never marry me. I’m sure you don’t know how much that wounds me.”

If it surprises my Reader that a man as preoccupied as Brigham Young would have the time or the inclination to gather information on female gossip, then I have not skillfully portrayed the complete control with which he ruled the Territory. He employed a network of spies who wandered through public gatherings, listening in for opinions of heresy and apostasy. No doubt one had been nearby at Goddard’s, dispatching an urgent report to the Beehive House.

“Tell me: is it true?”

In most tales, this would be the opportunity for the hero to act bravely. Yet I was not prepared to defy Brigham Young. “It’s not true,” I lied.

“Ann Eliza? Are you blushing?”

“Yes.”

“Is that color because of me?”

Brigham smiled, believing the red in my cheek had exposed an affection for him. Why is it the most brilliant men can be the least perceptive? For the rest of the journey he was as pleasant as the most humble and sincere gentleman, calling upon the delights of the fair weather. He spoke of the flowers in the gardens we passed and his love of the rose. He never pressed himself upon me, showing such deference and delight at my company that it was as if I were riding with a man who was wholly different from he who had just attacked me with my own words. When we arrived at my gate, he leapt to the ground to help me down. “I’ll see you Sunday.” He tipped his hat and bowed.

“Sunday,” I sputtered. “Yes, Sunday.”

The carriage threw up a cloud of dust as it coursed down the street, and heads poked from windows to get a glimpse of the Prophet. When he was gone my mother and Connie descended upon me, asking if I had really come home with Brigham Young.

After the incident in the carriage, Brigham disappeared from my life. He made no attempt to call, send word, or greet me at the Tabernacle on Sundays. I became, once again, one of some fifty thousand Saints under his command. My mother accused me of having offended him. “You must’ve said something. Brigham doesn’t turn up like that, then disappear.”

During this interval, my interest in Finley Free diminished. I became tired of the afternoons perched on the fence rail. “You only want to sketch me,” I complained. “Don’t you like to talk?” He set down his stick of charcoal, took my hand, and together we discovered he had nothing to say. We struggled to make a connection of intimacy, but his eye was on his artistic pursuits, and mine was on—well, at that age, everything around me.

“I’ll tell you why you lost interest,” said Lucinda. “It’s because you’ve got Brigham on your mind.”

“Don’t be cruel,” I said. Yet I remained curious why Brigham had not called since our drive.

“Maybe he knows you’re no longer close to Finley,” suggested Katherine.

“Poor Katherine,” said Lucinda. “How long have you lived in Utah?”

“As long as I can remember.”

“And yet you still don’t see. I pity you, I really do. At least Ann Eliza understands.”

I pretended that I did, but in truth, I did not. I had no idea what would befall me.

Then one day an invitation arrived to visit Brigham in his office. My mother and I arrived at the Prophet’s compound a half hour early and waited outside the wall. I turned my attention to the Lion House, which sits across a small courtyard from Brigham’s home. Many of his wives lived there, and his children too, in small rooms and apartments similar to those one might find in a depot hotel. I saw some women coming and going from the front door above which the famous stone lion perches. Some of these were girls about my age, dressed gaily in plum and blueberry silks, as was the fashion that season. They chatted in hushed voices and giggled as I would giggle with Lucinda and Katherine. Were they Brigham’s wives or daughters? Or both? (He was known to marry more than one step-daughter.) A severe woman walked up the street, passing those of us in line to see Brigham. Her collar appeared to strangle her and her mouth twitched violently, as if she were busy nibbling away on the inside of her cheek. She passed through the gate and entered the Lion House. No doubt she was one of Brigham’s early wives. A plump, overheated woman in front of us said to her companion, “I’ll bet you he hasn’t visited her since Nauvoo.”

“Nauvoo?” said the companion. “I’d say it’s been since Kirtland. If he ever did.”

My mother stood stalwart in their ribald breeze.

At exactly four o’clock Brigham greeted us at the door to his office. Although it was autumn, the weather had been especially hot, and Brigham was wearing his summer costume familiar to all in Deseret: the prunella suit, a vivid white shirt kept pristine by his laundress daughter, Claire, and a neck cloth. His Panama hat hung from the hat-tree beside the door. He was now around sixty and looked very much like a man who had accomplished much in his day. His wide brow was creased and thick, his jowls heavy and tufted with white whisker. His girth was large enough to fill the chair, and then some, behind his desk. Yet he was not altogether unappealing. His flinty eyes sparkled as they must have when he was a young man.

“I’ve got a proposal for you,” he said.

My mother sat up and began a speech I had not known she had prepared. “Brigham, you know quite well I love you as much as anyone. But be kind to my daughter. She’s now barely a woman and sometimes she doesn’t know what she’s after. Please consider her happiness as well, not merely yours.”

“Sister Elizabeth, it’s her happiness I have in mind. Now let me make my proposition, then you’ll see for yourself. As you know, our theater had a successful opening this past March. Our second season begins on Christmas Day. I would like your daughter to join the company. As an actress.”

His gaze lingered upon me in such a mysterious fashion that I was at a loss to interpret his meaning. “I’m not an actress,” I said.

“I don’t want my daughter on the stage.”

“Of course not. You shouldn’t. Not just any stage. But this is my stage. We would never put up anything wicked. I can’t think of a more perfect setting for Ann Eliza’s talents.”

Since my apostasy, Brigham has publicly accused me of always loving an audience. Many newspapers have reported him as saying I all but begged him to put me on his stage. This could not be further from the truth! I pondered his proposal for several days, coming close to turning him down. But I sensed my mother wanted me to follow Brigham’s command; and I will admit I was at the age when any young woman has a mild curiosity about standing on the boards with the clam-shell lamps upon her. Thus, I reluctantly accepted Brigham’s proposal and joined his theatrical company.

I debuted on Christmas Day 1862 in the Irish lampoon
Paddy Miles’ Boy
in the minor role of Jane Fidget. Because my talents were new and untrained, I refrained from complaining about my limited time on stage. Next I appeared as the comedic heroine in
The Two Polts.
Thereafter I played the ingénue in
Old Phil’s Birthday
—a role more suitable for my physical attributes and instincts. In one week I had gone from novice to veteran. In one month I was a player the critics, some from as far as California, mentioned in their columns. If I am to believe them, my dramatic gifts were effortless and well-disposed. One wrote, “Miss Webb possesses the most natural beauty to be seen in Utah in recent memory.” Why I remember that particular line of criticism I cannot say.

By January I had become such a part of the company, and so enfolded in the weekly repertory, that the long drive to and from my mother’s house in South Cottonwood was no longer practical. It was decided the most practical thing would be for me to move into the Lion House.

At the time, the Lion House was one of the most infamous private homes in all of America. Many speculated about the activities taking place inside; and every Gentile visitor to Salt Lake, on his way to California, made certain to see it, standing before its wall, gazing up at its cream plaster and green shutters, hoping to witness a salacious endeavor within. Newspapers whose editors disliked Brigham ran cartoons of him, plumped up in bed in the Lion House, twenty wives about him, ten on each side. They called it by many names—Brigham’s harem, his seraglio, the hen house. Brigham’s supporters, on the other hand, often referred to it as “the Mount Vernon of the West.” Even in the Territory, were you to ask the most loyal Saint how many wives lived inside, he would not know. The mysteries of its hallways, and what transpired beyond its notorious dormer windows, kept tongues busy with speculation. I know this for, since my apostasy, everyone, it seems, wants to hear about the inner workings of the Lion House.

I arrived one afternoon just before dinner, greeted in the glassed-in vestibule by Sister Snow, my old friend from the Endowment Ceremony. She led me up the stairs to a hallway bisecting the length of the top floor, ten doors on each side. Along the way we passed half a dozen children and several women I did not recognize. The children ran past me as if I did not exist—excited, straining creatures accustomed to many women and few men. The women were Brigham’s wives, although they called one another “Aunt.” Each took me in with a silent glare.