The Fourth Wife

Chapter 1

Salt Lake City, Utah Territory

A loud crash followed by a screech cut through the walls of the house, startling me on the piano bench.

My fingers hit a sour note and I scowled at the sheet music in front of me.

Even at this early-morning hour there was rarely a moment of quiet in the home of a large plural family.

Echoes of the baby’s screams reverberated through the papered walls from a room above as I straightened my shoulders to continue my practice over the noise.

With my fingers stretched out across the keys, my body melted into the instrument until we were conjoined as one.

My hands moved and the music swelled around the parlor.

My heart lightened as the notes rose from my fingertips.

I disappeared into the music I alone controlled.

Perhaps the only thing in my life I controlled—the only place I felt safe to be myself.

Behind me, Aunt Emma clicked her tongue. “Hazel,” she demanded. My music slowed but didn’t stop. “Must you make such a racket right after breakfast? You’ve disturbed your sister.”

I couldn’t help the leap of guilt in my chest. It was always there, like another force pumping through my veins. My hands stilled on the keyboard. But a piece of my defiance struggled through.

“It’s music,” I responded in a quiet voice. “I wouldn’t call it a racket.”

“It’s selfish to play at all hours of the day.”

Selfish. Once again, I was told I was sinful.

Part of me wanted to roll my eyes, but another part was racked with shame.

I swiveled around on the bench, my dark blue skirt swishing against the piano legs.

No amount of proper petticoats ever made me feel that I was much older than a child, even after my twenty years of life.

A pulse of frustration hit me again and I bit my lip to stay quiet.

Good Mormon women were never cross or disrespectful.

Silence beat between us as I stared up at Aunt Emma’s serious face, her baby balanced on her hip.

“But how am I to improve if I don’t practice?” The words leaked out though I knew arguing would only lead to trouble.

Aunt Emma’s cheeks lit up at my impertinence. “You play well enough already, Hazel. You can play all the hymns and entertain just fine. What more could you possibly be practicing for?”

Her words stung like a physical blow.

“Yes, Aunt Emma,” I replied quietly. She was right. I already knew almost every hymn by heart, and I could play easily when called upon for gatherings. Nothing more would come of my music, no matter how much I loved it. Mothers and wives in Zion had other duties far more important.

A part of me held, unrelenting, to my silent desires.

My head swam night after night with colorful dreams of my hands on the magnificent Tabernacle organ, my music bringing audiences to tears.

And Elijah in the front row watching me with adoration.

I wanted more from life than I was allotted—but this was a sin.

So I shamefully pushed the dreams back again and again.

My sister squawked again from Aunt Emma’s hip.

Aunt Emma let out a sigh. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“Yes.” I stood, towering over her even in my shortest heeled boots but feeling small as a mouse. “Father needs me at the printing office.”

She clicked her tongue again in obvious disapproval. “Then hurry off. There’s no place for idleness.” With that, she spun on her heel and marched away, her hips swinging back and forth, uneven with the weight of her daughter.

“Good day, Aunt Emma,” I called after her. She made no move to acknowledge me as she disappeared around the corner to the kitchen. “And don’t stop there,” I murmured under my breath. “Walk right on out the door and down the street and never return.”

A mixture of shame and terrifying pleasure at the thought warmed through me.

The last year had become almost unbearable with that woman and her growing brood of children under Mother’s roof.

If only Father wasn’t so distracted with his newspaper these days, then maybe he could finally find them a new home after circumstances forced them out of theirs, and Mother and I could go back to pretending he didn’t spend half his nights with another family.

Our family. My siblings.

I shook away the thought. I’d barely had breakfast and already too many emotions swarmed through me.

I balanced on a tightrope knowing one jolt would send me plummeting over the side.

The emotion I feared most buzzed in my chest—panic.

I drew in a long breath, staring around the parlor, trying to calm myself.

Like any sensible Mormon woman, Mother kept her house in perfect order.

It was a sign of our industry and refinement despite the harsh conditions of the valley.

Matching maroon chairs and sofa surrounded the hearth in a warming circle.

Embroidered stools welcomed the younger children beside the wooden table where Mother placed the family Bible and an intricate box that she kept stocked with tiny molasses sweets.

The walnut grand piano tucked against the far wall beneath a family portrait and my framed sampler from childhood bearing the words Home Sweet Home.

And one day, Mother hoped, my own home would look much the same. My life was already laid out—become a plural wife and mother with little else to occupy my energies than the cause of the church and family.

Across the room on the mantel sat Mother’s favorite blue dish.

My heartbeat pounded quicker. Attempting to stamp out the growing panic—a panic I couldn’t justify—I crossed the room on silent feet, my full skirts bobbing around me.

Gingerly, I reached out and touched the beloved blue plate.

Father had given Mother this set for their wedding many years ago and though the other pieces had been lost or broken, this one plate remained—the last physical evidence that once my father had loved his first wife before all others.

Now it sat proudly displayed on the mantel as if she needed the daily reminder.

Someone cleared their throat, interrupting my thoughts, and I pulled my hands back as if the plate had scalded me. Another sin, distraction, to add to my list for the day. Slowly, I turned to find Mother standing in front of me, her fingers clutching a white envelope. She didn’t smile.

“I have news.” Mother’s unusually stern voice matched her perfectly set hair, drawn back on her head in a tight bun, not a single strand out of place. “From Elder Crowther.”

“Elder Crowther?” My heartbeat ratcheted. One of the apostles, the most powerful men in the church and entire Territory.

“He wishes to speak with you this morning.”

At once, the air seemed to disappear from the room.

“Now?” My voice cracked. Elder Crowther was Elijah’s father. Elijah, the boy I’d spent my childhood with, the boy who grew into the man I loved.

But Elijah was gone. My Elijah. For years he’d been away serving the church as a missionary in England, reduced to nothing but letters and memories.

Did Elder Crowther have news of him? Of our future plan for our happiness together?

The thought of Elijah with me once again was exhilarating, almost to the point of physical pain.

“You must hurry to the Council House to meet with him.” Mother didn’t move from her spot, but the envelope wrinkled as her grip on it tightened.

I tensed with the movement. Mother never acted this stiff and severe.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“There’s no indication that anything is wrong.” She didn’t meet my eyes. “Only a call to come at once.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t persuaded. Worry gripped my stomach.

“There’s something wrong, isn’t there? What happened?

Did he get hurt on his mission?” The invisible tightrope beneath my feet drew tighter, my pulse rushing faster.

My mind took off, too many thoughts zipping through it to settle on any one.

Elijah’s handsome face. His last letter tucked away in my trunk upstairs.

His fingers intertwined with mine. His body broken and bleeding on the cobbled streets of London.

Oh no, had he died? The image sparked a tiny yelp that I tried my best to swallow.

He was dead, surely, killed by dark-cloaked street thieves or …

“Hazel.” Mother snapped her fingers.

I had always been like this—unable to suppress my thoughts and stay focused, no matter how hard I prayed for relief from this burden.

Everything distracted me, and often I found myself elsewhere entirely without ever having moved my feet, frequently assaulted with images and worries that weren’t true but somehow felt so keenly real.

Panic swelled in my chest, outpacing my lungs. I opened my mouth gasping for air as dread overtook me. Was I dying? Squeezing my hands together as tight as I could, I pushed back the rush of tears.

“Hazel, what’s happening?” Mother studied me with concern.

“N-nothing,” I protested, the words barely coming out.

“The Devil is trying to overtake you again. You must fight him.”

I nodded, my heart beating like it attempted to leave my chest. “I am, I promise.”

I could feel his wicked claws around me trying to tear me apart.

Why was I so weak? Why did I have to always fight this battle?

I lived with my head drowning in a sea of worries I couldn’t drag myself from, and then all at once, this raging panic would overcome me—Satan and his legion ripping through me.

I was nothing but an abominable young woman and these attacks only proved it.

“I need to go,” I said, and stumbled toward the doorway. My world was suddenly a pinprick of vision, but if I kept moving and fought through this, the assault would end. And then I could pray for forgiveness for my weakness, my ineptitude, my failings.

“Hazel, are you sure?” At last, her voice had softened to her typical kindness.