The Belle of Nauvoo - Book One

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

“Ought we to let her attend?” Mother asked her husband Hyrum. “Joseph came expressly to warn us of the questionable characters who put their names down to attend the dinner.”

“Papa! You must let me go to the dinner! You must!” I turned the most sorrowful eyes that I could summon to my countenance upon that one parent, my father, with full knowledge of the effect such a look had worked upon him in times past.

Papa stared into my eyes and wavered.

Mother added, “A girl must have a care for her reputation. A good name endureth forever.”

“Oh, Papa! Please!!” I beseeched him.

“How can I deny her?”

Ah! I was about to prevail. Aunt Mercy Thompson, who was Mother’s widowed sister, lived in our home at the time. She intervened to the satisfaction of all parties. “Perhaps you might chaperone her, Hyrum. We can sacrifice your company for such a cause as this, and no one will dare give insult to Lovina with  her own father in attendance.”

I smiled on Aunt Mercy. Bless her.

Father smiled. “Where is this glorious creation you ladies have been sewing upon for so many weeks? Put it on! I’m anxious to see what kind of girl I’ll be escorting today!”

“Do you think your knee can stand the strain, Hyrum?” asked Mother Mary.

Once again I held my breath. Father had injured his knee earlier in the month and had been largely confined to the house.

“I think it might hold up under the circumstances. Sound as a wood beam, it is.”

I threw my arms around my father and kissed him soundly. “Thank you, Papa. You won’t be sorry! I’ll be ready in two shakes of a cat’s tail,” I said, then rushed to the stairs and climbed them. However, my preparations took anything but a moment, for I meant to be seen at my best that afternoon. My crinoline petticoats were scented with lavender and my hair was curled in English ringlets with the hot tongs.

Ever so gently, aunty Grinnels, our housekeeper, and Mother lowered the dress over my tresses and laced the back buttons. I looked at it one part at a time in my mirror, and thought myself fit to come before the throne of God. If not that, at least fit to turn the heads of a few young men! My dress was a frothy creation of tucks and laces – all pink. We placed the English point lace I had found on my plate that morning around my corsage to form a collar. The lace had travelled all the way from Preston, England. I felt rich as the queen herself. We both had dark hair and were small. The color of my dress gave my skin a glow that needed no dusting of cochineal powder. With that and a sparkle in my eye, I was fair set to dazzle all my beaus.

The whole family gathered at the foot of the stairs for my descent. The younger girls, Jerusha and Mary Jane, Sarah, and baby Martha Ann, were awestruck by my transformation. Even my brothers, John and little Joseph F., had to appreciate the triumph of the collective labors of four women. I was ready for the dance.

Father lifted his arm with pride, and I placed my gloved hand upon his elbow. His other hand held his cane to favor his knee. We left the house.

As the family watched us cross the street, a face at each windowpane, Father confided to me how much I was like my mother, Jerusha, when she was sixteen.

“I courted her for years before I had a home to bring her to. She was worth waiting for.” He stopped and turned to look at me. “You bring those days in Palmyra back to me. I am as proud of you as I was of her.”

I felt my bosom swell at his praise so lavishly given. “Th-thank  you, Papa. I only hope I can be worthy of my mother and meet her again.”

“I, too, hope for such a moment.”