The Work and the Glory (69 page)

Lydia felt a great cry well up inside her.
But what about our farm? What about the cabin Nathan built for me with his own hands? What about my flower garden and my vegetables?

Over the past months Lydia had developed some surprising feelings about the plot of land that she and Nathan lived upon. She was a village girl, born and raised above the store that her father owned. She had never had the pleasure of seeing land plowed and sown, the sweeping green carpet of spring wheat replacing the rich black of the soil and then eventually becoming a waving sea of gold as harvest time approached. She had loved their little plot of land. She loved working at Nathan’s side as he tamed it and made it submit to his will. Were they simply to walk away from all that now?

And then, as though the Lord had heard her inward cry, a few moments later came this: “ ‘And they that have farms, that can not be sold, let them be left or rented as seemeth them good.’ ”

She turned to Nathan. She could see the sorrow in his eyes too. But there was also something resolute on his face. “Are we going to go?” she mouthed silently to him.

For several moments he just looked at her; then finally, slowly, but with no doubt in his eyes, he nodded, then nodded again.

Chapter Seven

As the wagon loaded with bags of wheat swung around and headed down the lane, Melissa raised her hand and waved. “Good-bye, Papa.”

Benjamin turned and lifted a hand.

“Good luck with those men from New York City.”

He waved again, then turned his attention back to the mules pulling the wagon.

She watched him until the wagon turned onto the road that led south into Palmyra Village. A moment later he and the wagon disappeared behind the trees that lined the creek between their farm and the Martin Harris property. He had high hopes for the day’s wheat auction. The buyers from Baltimore and Philadelphia and New York City were moving through western New York buying everything they could get their hands on. The market was good, and it looked like Benjamin Steed would continue to prosper.

Melissa stood on the porch for another minute, then the cold began to penetrate beneath her coat. Shivering, she turned and hurried into the house.

As she came into the warmth of the main living room of their cabin, her mother gave her a strange look. Melissa knew why. Her father went into Palmyra several times a month for one reason or another. Normally Melissa gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and said good-bye from the comfort of the house. Today she had bundled up and gone outside to watch him load the last of the wheat, then stayed on the porch long enough to see him gone.

Well, there was a purpose in that, and Melissa decided there was no profit in delaying it further. She took off her coat and scarf and hung them up, then slipped the heavy woolen mittens in the top drawer of the chest that stood by the door. When she was finished she went to the table and sat down. “Mama, can we talk?”

Mary Ann was in the portion of the room that served as their kitchen. She was pounding some coarse cornmeal into a finer flour, using a wooden pestle and a large wooden bowl. She stopped. For a moment she debated. The cake needed to be started soon or it would not be done by the time Benjamin returned.

“Please, Mama.”

She set the bowl aside, dusted off her hands on her apron, and came over to sit beside her daughter. “What is it, Melissa? You look troubled.”

“I am troubled,” she cried. She had been stewing and fretting about this for almost a month, and now the emotions came out in a rush. “Mama, I want to go to Kirtland.”

Mary Ann’s face softened. “I know, Melissa. I know.”

“No, Mama, I
really
want to go!” Instantly she was sorry, and reached out and placed her hand over her mother’s. “I know you do too, Mama. But I also know that Papa will never agree. You’ve heard what he says.”

Mary Ann sighed, and it was a sound of deep sorrow. “As you know, your father has always had strong feelings against Joseph Smith. Then when Joshua and he...” The pain was too much and she looked away. “Your father has always held Joseph somewhat responsible for that.”

“I know, Mama, but—”

Her mother went on quickly and Melissa stopped. “Now, Nathan and Lydia are going too. After all your father did to help Nathan run his farm last summer while he was in Colesville, he feels a little betrayed. And this time there is no question that Joseph is directly responsible for it.”

Melissa’s breath exploded in a burst of frustration. “I know that, Mama, but it
is
Nathan’s farm. He and Lydia are married now. Papa can’t be telling them what to do for the rest of their lives.”

Mary Ann nodded sadly. “That’s part of what’s hurtin’ him inside.”

Melissa felt a sense of hopelessness sweep over her. “Mama, these last few weeks...I...” She shook her head, fighting back the tears.

“What, Melissa?”

“Mama, I’ve got to go,” she whispered. “I’ve felt it so strongly lately. The Spirit is whispering to me that there’s something waiting for me in Ohio.”

For a long moment Mary Ann looked at her oldest daughter, and her eyes filled with affection and love. Melissa was not the Steed’s first daughter. There had been Mary, born before Joshua and dead within an hour of her birth. When Melissa was born the cord had been wrapped twice around her neck. She was black from head to toe. Even now the feeling of terror came back to her. Was she to lose her second daughter as well?

Moving with the swiftness of experience, the midwife slashed the cord, unwound it from around Melissa’s neck, then grabbed her by the heels and held her upside down. She slapped her across the buttocks, then again, the crack of her palm sharp and hard. “Breathe, baby, breathe!” Mary Ann cried from her bed. Then there was a soft gasp, followed instantly by a howling cry. It was just as though someone were pouring life into Melissa’s body. A healthy red glow started from her chest; then, moving rapidly, spread upwards and downwards through her body, banishing the blackness.

For as long as she had life, Mary Ann would never forget the feelings she had as she then took the squalling baby in her arms. She could still picture Melissa’s face, as clearly as though all this had happened just yesterday. She was furious at being so badly treated. The tiny fists were clenched; her face was screwed up in protest as she howled and howled and howled. Never had anything sounded so absolutely wonderful. Now her face carried a different kind of pain, and it cut deeply into Mary Ann’s heart.

“I could go with Nathan and Lydia—,” Melissa started, but Mary Ann shook her head. “Why, Mama?”

“You know Papa will never agree to that. They have no idea how they are going to get there or where they will be living once they arrive. They could be living in a tent. You’re still single and—”

“Don’t you think I know that!” It was flung out in desperation. “Mama, I’m almost twenty years old now. I’m old enough to do this.”

“I know you are,” Mary Ann said wearily, “and you know you are.”

“But Papa won’t accept it,” Melissa finished for her.

“Melissa, Melissa.” How could she make her understand? “Joshua is gone. Now Nathan and Lydia are leaving. If you go too, it will break his heart.”

“Papa doesn’t have a heart.”

“Melissa Mary!”

She was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, Mama. I love Papa. You know I do. But I’m so tired of being treated like a child. He treats me like he does Rebecca.”

Mary Ann started to deny that, then just shook her head. “Melissa, can you be patient in this? I know you’re anxious, but this is not the time to fight for it. It will be another month or so before everyone starts to leave. Maybe something will—”

“Joseph and Emma have already gone,” Melissa said curtly. “They left two days ago with Brother Rigdon and Brother Partridge.”

“I know, I know. But they had a sleigh and a horse. Everyone else is going to have to wait for the canal to open again. There’s time.”

Melissa stared at her mother for several seconds, then stood up slowly. “Is there, Mama?”

“Yes, there is. Be patient. Don’t give up hope.”

“All right, Mama,” she said woodenly.

“Joshua?”

He looked up from the books, quill pen poised.

“Do you believe in angels?”

He grunted in disgust. “Of course not.”

“Hmm.” The book that had lowered slightly came up again, and in a moment Jessie was engrossed once more. For several minutes the only sound was the howling of the wind and the chatter of snow pellets against the window. It was the last day of January, and it was obvious that the winter of 1830-31—which had been a long, hard one—was still not ready to relinquish its hold on the Great Plains.

Joshua picked up another sheaf of freight bills and began to enter the figures in the ledger. After a moment he stopped and gave his wife a strange look. “What makes you ask a fool question like that?”

She didn’t look up. “What?” she murmured.

He just glared at her.

Her eyes finally raised and looked at him over the top of the book. “What?” she repeated, this time paying attention.

“Why’d you ask that?”

“Why’d I ask what?”

“About the angels.”

“Oh.” She shrugged. “I heard some missionaries in town talking about it. They were saying God still speaks to men today and that sometimes he does it through angels.”

He humphed again, making his feelings clearly known, and went back to his figuring. Immediately Jessica went back to her reading.

Five minutes later Joshua finished. He wiped off the tip of the quill, capped the bottle of ink, and closed the book. He sat there for a moment, watching Jessie. It irritated him that she could get so totally caught up in her reading that she blocked things out around her. “What missionaries?” he said abruptly.

“Hmm?”

“Jessie!” It came out sharply.

It startled her, and the book clapped shut. “What?”

“What missionaries? I don’t know about no missionaries in town.”

“Oh, there was some who came in from back East just after the first of the year.” She nodded, remembering. “In fact, it was after you left to take that shipment of salt pork to St. Louis. Supposedly they’re going out to teach the Indians, but they’ve been preaching some to the whites too.”

“What are you doin’ listenin’ to missionaries?”

She looked away quickly. “I was just passin’ in the street. I only stopped for a minute. I was curious.”

“And do you believe in angels?”

She overlooked his sarcastic sneer. “Hadn’t really thought much about it till today.”

“Well?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I do. But I don’t think they go around appearin’ to people.”

“That’s good. Neither do I.” Abruptly he stood up, the subject closed in his mind. “It’s time for bed.”

She glanced down at her book. “I’ll be right there.”

“Jessie, I said it’s time for bed.”

She sighed and put the book aside, not meeting his eyes.

As she moved to the lamp and picked it up, he watched her. The light caught her profile and showed the flatness of her stomach. He hesitated, not wanting to bring it up but not able to leave it alone. “You sure you won’t consider seeing Doctor Hathaway again?”

She stiffened. “That subject is closed, Joshua. I told you that.”

“Jessie, you can’t give up. Not yet.”

“I said that subject is closed.” She strode away from him into the bedroom, not waiting for him to follow. By the time Joshua had gone around to pull the shutters tight and secure the front door and finally came in the bedroom, she had already slipped into her night dress and was sitting on the chair waiting for him. He sat down on the bed in front of her and put up one foot. She grabbed the boot and began to pull. It came off, and she dropped it with a clunk. He raised his other leg and put it in front of her.

“They claim this angel came back to bring a special book.”

Now it was Joshua who was preoccupied. He was thinking about furs. The mountain men would be coming in from the West in the next month as spring began to break. Maybe this time he ought to take the furs all the way to New York City himself instead of selling them off in Cincinnati to the buyer there. A day or two before, he had seen a paper from Boston. In it were advertisements for women’s coats, men’s beaverskin hats. The prices had shocked him. It was clear someone was making a great deal of money on the furs, and it wasn’t Joshua Steed. But maybe that could be corrected.

He looked up absently. “What?”

“The missionaries. They said they have a special book. They said an angel came and told some man about some gold plates buried in a hill.” Jessie let his other boot drop to the floor. “Sounds pretty farfetched to me.”

Joshua had been about to lower his other leg. It stopped in midair. “What did you say?” he said sharply.

Jessica was suddenly stammering. “I...I was just talking on, Joshua. I’m sorry.”

He grabbed her hand. “What did you say? About gold plates?”

“It was nothin’, Joshua. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“Tell me!” he cried. “What about gold plates?”

She cowered back, not sure what she had done to trigger this. “The missionaries, they were talking about them. They had a book. I saw it. One of them held it up. They said it was translated from these gold plates by some man in New York. An angel supposedly gave them to him.”

She paused, glancing quickly at Joshua’s face. There was a strange look of excitement mingled with anger, maybe even disgust. “I didn’t believe it, Joshua,” she added quickly. “Not any of it.”

“Joseph Smith.”

It startled Jessie. “What?”

“Was the man’s name Joseph Smith? The one who got the plates?”

“I...I think so.” She felt a rush of relief that this sudden intensity was not directed at her. “Yes, I think you’re right. I think they did call him Smith.”

“Where were these men from?”

“I don’t remember if I heard.”

His grip on her hand tightened like a vise. “Think, Jessie! Were they from New York?”

Her eyes narrowed as she thought back on what she had heard. “Yes, I think so. At least they talked about things that happened in New York. And they sounded like they was from back East.”