The Toll House: Confessions of Katharine Brand

By David Bruce Gardner

Admission to the Celestial Kingdom can be very costly, as discovered by the wealthy Scottish importer, Malcolm Sinclair. A devout seeker and converted follower of Mormon Prophet Joseph Smith Jr., Malcolm and his family are held together by the tenacity and love of Katharine Brand. But Katharine has a secret and a confession to make. For her own integrity and salvation she must reveal her truth, even if it threatens to shatter the only family she has known. THE TOLL HOUSE is more than Katharine's story; it is a tale of the cost of one's faith, and the willingness of the faithful to pay the price.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462870356

David Bruce Gardner

David Bruce Gardner's childhood was in rural Utah, within a large family of devout Mormons. His experiences in the Army Air Corps during WWII led him to a doctorate in psychology and interest in the wide range of responses of normal people to abnormal, traumatic events. Now retired from his career as a college professor, he has turned his attention to the origins of Mormonism as a uniquely American phenomenon and ways in which that history might affect lives darkened by trauma. THE TOLL HOUSE, while a fictional story, treats both issues.

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Copyright © 2011 by David Bruce Gardner.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2011907466

ISBN: Hardcover    978-1-4628-7034-9

ISBN: Softcover      978-1-4628-7033-2

ISBN: Ebook           978-1-4628-7035-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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CONTENTS

FOREWORD

PREFACE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

Infidelity does not consist in believing or disbelieving; it consists in professing to believe what one does not believe.

—Thomas Paine

We should cease to flail at the false dichotomy between truth and fiction, and bend our energies to the nurturance of fidelity.

—Katharine Brand

This story is written for Ila Christensen Gardner, whose life gives reassuring witness that the precious virtue, fidelity, may yet be found within our midst.

—DBG

FOREWORD

Proof pages for Katharine Brand’s story, badly deteriorated but with editorial queries and author’s corrections still readable, fell into my hands when I served as executor of my late father’s estate. Accompanying the proofs was a letter addressed to Miss Brand, handwritten on the letterhead of Star of the Valley Publishing Co., Inc., Great Salt Lake City, Utah Territory, and dated 27 November, 1861. The letter, signed by a Mr. Edwin Goss, informed Miss Brand that she need not return proofs to the editor, inasmuch as the agreement to publish her material had been abrogated upon the advice of legal counsel, following a meeting with certain unidentified ‘officials.’ Mr. Goss expressed his personal regrets for any inconvenience that decision may have caused. No original manuscript has been found, nor has any records pertaining to the above-named publisher.

Included with the effects was a yellowed newspaper clipping of a death notice for Katharine Brand Sinclair Pratt, giving 25 November as the date of death. No year was identified. Neither Salt Lake County records nor intact newspapers archived by contemporary publishers have been found to corroborate the clipping. The notice failed to include customary family and biographical information.

I do not recall encountering the name, ‘Katharine Brand,’ prior to my discovery of these proof pages. The name does not appear in the genealogical lines of either of my parents. Neither is it recorded anywhere in our rather extensive family records, nor in the comprehensive genealogical archives maintained by the LDS Church, as a name in any manner associated with the Sinclair or Pratt families.

Presumably, someone close to Miss Brand placed the letter and proof sheets among her things following her death. If she died in 1861, two days before the date of the letter from Mr. Goss, it is unlikely she was aware that her volume would be suppressed. How disappointed she might have been had she become aware is a matter of conjecture. Certainly in her mind she had completed her task. Although I claim no expertise in the field of historical documents, my untutored opinion is that, had Miss Brand lived and chosen to pursue the matter, she might well have found an Eastern publisher for her story.

Most of the major players in Katharine Brand’s account were known historical figures, alive during the period 1840—1860. Their lives were caught up in the Sturm und Drang of the early years of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—the ‘Mormons.’ But records available on the wealthy Malcolm Sinclair and the poverty-stricken widow of Sam Cowley do not confirm the particular events depicted by Miss Brand. Efforts to document those events have been singularly unsuccessful, and have led me to suspect that Katharine Brand may have been trying her hand at nineteenth-century fiction.

My failure to verify the Brand story is disappointing to me personally and to those who have so generously supported my search. Certain individuals among them have granted remarkably liberal access to their most restricted archives, some containing truly priceless documents. They know who they are, and that they have my eternal gratitude and friendship, and my pledge to respect their wish to remain unidentified. The notes I have compiled from these searches would fill another volume and reveal much of human weakness—and no less of heroism—never before told, but it would violate the confidence these people have placed in me to go beyond the mystery of Katharine Brand. Suffice to say my search could not have been completed without the kind cooperation and generous assistance of persons and organizations in Salt Lake City, St. George and Torrey, Utah; Nauvoo, Illinois; Independence, Missouri; Lamoni, Iowa; Beaver Island and Charlevoix, Michigan; and Burlington, Wisconsin.

The only unexplored potential source of documentation on the life and writings of Katharine Brand would seem to be the countless unpublished family diaries, journals, letters and informal compilations in the hands of descendants of the original Mormons. If any such records should appear it would, needless to say, be a most welcome and exciting discovery. Short of such serendipitous event, I am forced by the accepted canons of scholarship to the tentative conclusion that Miss Brand’s story occurred only in her creative imagination—if indeed ‘Katharine Brand’ had independent existence outside the imagination of another, unnamed person.

It will be apparent to the reader that in her story, Miss Brand becomes one of three narrators. Similarities in the style across these three ‘voices’ suggests the likelihood that while Miss Brand may have drawn story content from the other two, perhaps using their written or oral accounts, the authorship was hers alone. In my role as editor I have preserved Miss Brand’s writing style, exercising only minor prerogatives to align punctuation, spelling and paragraphing with the conventions expected by today’s reader. The author’s faded proof pages are preserved in my keeping, but will be made accessible, with certain provisions and restrictions, to credentialed scholars in the conduct of legitimate historical research.

David Bruce Gardner, Ph.D.

Pueblo West, Colorado

May, 2011

PREFACE

I recognize my accountability, no less than should every soul within the purview of God’s benevolent eye, for stewardship of my mortal career. Among the elements of that accountability, I presume, will be reckoned the degree to which I shall have engaged my earthly companions with honesty and integrity. I pray that through placing my life and times on the public record with candor, yet with compassion for any who may be injured by my words, I might in some measure make amends for the years I devoted to shielding myself from the harsh glare of truth.

My capacity for recollection being unexceptional, I beg my reader’s forbearance. My attempt to report, in 1861, events which began early in the century, has drawn heavily from my own flimsy journal record, and additionally from letters, diaries and conversations with family and friends who lived greater or smaller portions of those events. These resources have provided a rich mosaic of detail, sufficient no doubt to relate the essential story here undertaken.

Such records fall short, however, failing to convey the emotional context, the commitment of one’s person and, more particularly, failing to record the toll, in extraordinarily human coin, exacted from those whose paths were charted, they believed, by the hand of God. Some faltered, some lost their way, and many perished in their valiant effort to make their way to this valley to build their temple of God. It will be a magnificent structure, but far more than that, a portal for their return to God’s presence in the Celestial Kingdom. And who is there among us who can say that any toll paid by those who endure to the end, for the incomparable rewards awaiting those worthy to enter His house, could ever be too high?

My personal journal is a modest one, crude by any standard, the writings separated by uneven voids, often severely abbreviated, at times scratched hastily under poor light, recorded in fatigue of body and spirit, and in circumstances one would wish to befall no mortal soul. Accordingly, I have drawn heavily from the accounts of James Duncan Sinclair, Amanda Cowley Sinclair, and Celia Cowley, whose experiences enrich the record and provide essential context which would otherwise be unavailable.

I am constrained to sympathize fully with the reader who, in our age of enlightenment, will conclude that my story is exaggerated, at best, if indeed not fraudulent. Some will dismiss it as hearsay, inasmuch as it is reported by someone who did not witness the events with her own eyes. The integrity of those who have given their testimony is known to me, but of course cannot be verified by the reader.

Every person must choose to believe or disbelieve such hearsay, in matters large and small. I confess my predilection to resist belief; as example I offer my rejection of a report that Joseph Smith talked with God and His Son, for the reason that the report came to me through an intermediary once removed from the Prophet. Nevertheless, should it prove to be the case that God did indeed break His silence and speak to Brother Joseph, I am fully prepared to concede that it was Joseph’s obligation to listen—though none of mine.

Skepticism notwithstanding, I am unrelieved of the burden of my reporting chore, though I fervently wished it otherwise. I did not choose to write this account; its parts have lain scattered amongst the miscellany of my life, pleading, begging like a trapped spirit craving release, to be clothed in a mortal shell of words, holding my own failing body hostage until my assigned task was completed. Now it is finished; one should not be censured for believing or disbelieving, only for choosing to remain in ignorance. It is no part of my mission to coerce the mind of another.

I rest now.

K. B. S. P.

Great Salt Lake City

September 14, 1861

CHAPTER I

KATHARINE 1

I prattled thoughtlessly about my plans for the school, while I should have been seeing to Myra’s nourishment.

Constitution or no, I declared, I shall meet my pupils tomorrow.

Books or no, as well, I presume, Myra said, idly stirring the mutton and rice stew in her bowl.

Lack of books won’t stop us, I insisted. It will be months before Mr. Owen’s intellectual friends arrive, but the children are here now, with more to come. We must establish the fundamentals before the dreamers appear and turn the school into a playhouse.

Could Robert Owen find more of a dreamer than the first of his teachers? Myra asked, staring at her still full bowl.

Myra Collingwood, why would you label me a dreamer? I asked indignantly. My pedagogy begins and ends with the skills essential to responsible citizenship.

If you believe they will let you teach as you please, you are a dreamer, Myra said. Have you forgotten Mr. Owen’s words about your Bible stories?

Not at all, I said, though her words rang true. I knew the time might be short until I would make the hard choice between my philosophy of education and my allegiance to New Harmony. But Mr. Owen is presently occupied with other matters. I know from—that is, I understand from certain sources that his agreement with Father Rapp is not yet final. Furthermore, his travels to the Eastern States will keep him from my classroom for a time.

‘Certain sources’ by the name of Malcolm Sinclair? Myra asked, turning to me with the merest trace of a smile.

Well, Miss Collingwood, I said, feigning offense, it’s a blessed relief seeing your face remembers how to appear pleased about something—and a pity it chooses to show it with most unladylike aspersions on my character! I lost the struggle to keep my face stern, and knew the game was up.

You’re kickin’ the wind, Missy! Myra said gleefully. I’m right, aren’t I? It’s Malcolm Sinclair! Tell me I’m wrong! Myra’s face had come alive, as if she’d been saving all her energy for this moment of celebration. Her deep brown eyes sparkled with delight, her narrow, oval face glowed with the intrigue of my newfound romance. I was twice blessed, having Myra for a friend, and now having Malcolm too.

Oh! Myra, I’ve been desperate to tell you, I said in half-whisper, half-squeal. She hugged me excitedly. I glanced furtively about the hall, but the few remaining diners paid no heed. We promised we’d keep it to ourselves for now, having no wish to start tongues wagging.

Eyes glistening, she grasped my hand in both of hers.

Katharine, she said, I’m so happy for you both. It brings hope for a brighter tomorrow in this wretched Indiana swamp!

Her frail hands around mine reminded me of her arduous kitchen chores, and I cursed, silently, that exasperating malady endemic among males, which renders them incapable of recognizing a useful mind if it is obscured by a comely face.

With the first few words of my secret having leaked their way through the dam, I found it impossible to contain the flood of them now threatening to gush forth. Endeavoring to disguise them sufficiently to preserve those sweet secrets belonging to none but Malcolm and myself, I babbled about the steady gaze of his gray-blue eyes, his unruly, high-standing hair the color of a sandy beach, his straight, sturdy figure, the firm cut of his jaw, his astute, logical mind, his sure, gentle manner with horses, his way of seeing large meanings in small moments, the lean economy of his words, and other such inconsequential matters.

It will be a miracle if you keep your mind on your pupils, Myra said.

More’s the reason I need your help at the schoolhouse, I pointed out. I’m entirely serious; the need will only grow in weeks to come, as new families arrive. This community needs your love for children, and your understanding of what it is they should be taught.

I’m too tired even to think about it tonight, Katharine, she protested. You insist I should be a teacher, but you know the Council won’t hear of it. They want me in the kitchen; I presume that’s where I’ll stay."

And that’s where you’ll die an early death if you don’t get yourself out of it soon! Myra, if we can just get them to observe your way with children—as I have—they’ll think again. They won’t be so all-fired set on keeping you in that kitchen twelve hours a day! And just think what we can do! With you helping, we’ll make two classes for the beginners. I’ll teach one the language arts while you direct the other in their numbers and domestics. No child will face the terror of my discipline for more than half the day! Can you not see how improved the lot of our young charges will be?

Myra saw very little at the moment. My lectures on how best to conduct her life were no longer novel and had never been inspiring. She was near sleep at the table; it was time to get her to our room. Morning and her next round of kitchen chores would come too soon. When she refused more food, I cleared our places and saw her to our room in the Number One Brüder Haus, ordering her to her bed. I left then, finding my way along the garden path through the block to the schoolhouse. Myra needed quiet, and I needed to read my classroom, my supplies, and my lessons for tomorrow’s opening day.

There was much to be done. I had enrolled nineteen pupils, between six and ten years in age. If more appeared, some seats would necessarily serve two. None should be forced to sit on the floor, though it was as clean as I could manage with cloths I substituted for a missing broom and mop.

By midnight the room was as ready as possible, the few supplies organized, and my plan as prepared as it was destined to be. I had one copy of a reader I’d brought from Boston. There was a blackboard of sorts but no chalk, and no slates. I had framed a large square of flannel and cut out some block letters and numbers in varied colors, to be displayed on it. I could use pins to hold them in place if need be.

My requisition list, headed by readers and writing materials, proved lengthier even than I had anticipated, but that too was ready for Councilman Groberg. He had promised only that he would come for it tomorrow, not that he would speak in its support. It was time to seek my own sleep.

I shut down the lamps and closed the door behind me, pulling my shawl up close against the damp, chill air. I grumbled inwardly about this place where I wished to grasp each handful of air and wring the water out before breathing it. I pretended to feel the warm strength of Malcolm’s arms around me, and turned my mind to recapturing that singularly delightful occasion of just two evenings past.

We had made our acquaintance over a period of weeks, by virtue of Malcolm’s service on the Council. I was permitted to attend their sessions on the occasions when matters of the children’s education were to be discussed. Malcolm was Owen’s chief financial adviser. We learned much of each other’s views in those early Council meetings, in which my vision of the perfect classroom was obliged to reconcile with Malcolm’s irrefutable articulation of our financial realities.

The two of us had walked, on occasion, along the river bank, fighting mosquitoes and comparing justifications for being caught up in Owen’s utopian vision. We both felt the magnetism of Robert Owen, and were alike moved by his impassioned arguments for equalitarianism. We shared, additionally, certain reservations about this remote location on the Wabash, still legally the property of Father George Rapp and his devout followers. Most Rappites had left or were preparing to depart shortly for their new home in Pennsylvania, having agreed to Owen’s offer to purchase their hand-built village of Harmonie.

More important than our unease about the remoteness or the unhealthy climate, we discovered parallel reservations over Owen’s pronouncements on religion. His words had become increasingly hostile, creating apprehension among those of us committed to the Christian Faith. Malcolm and I had come from different stations, proposing to serve differing functions in Owen’s design, yet each found agreement with the other’s inclination to withhold final judgment on the grand experiment until it could be tested.

Our talking ended abruptly, late that magical evening, in the grassy orchard beyond the Rope Walk. It ended when his arms encircled me and clasped me tightly to him. He kissed my hair, kissed my forehead, kissed my eyes and my cheeks; he kissed my mouth, and he kissed me and then he kissed me and I felt a want inside me that was hungrier than I dare confess.

To record that we discovered each other is, at once, to divulge far more than is proper, yet not nearly enough. Beyond the glorious unity we both found so agreeable, Malcolm helped me discover elements, hitherto unsuspected, within myself. The compelling emotions he so gently aroused, so fully enveloped in pure love, surpassed the most romantic of my childhood dreams. Though that wondrous moment of discovery, I recognized, was a transformation which could occur but once, I was undismayed. I should think that a butterfly, which can emerge from its cocoon but one time, would not lament the demise of its caterpillar career.

I have since found myself bemused to contemplate the remarkable fiction, likely to be found nowhere outside the masculine mind, of an Omnipotent Designer who would arrange such magnificent capacity, thence to declare the pleasures of its unfettered, unabashed fulfillment a blessing for His sons and, simultaneously, a depravity for His daughters!

Taking the path through the garden and apple orchard, I was roused from my reverie over Malcolm Sinclair by the sense of a shadowy figure ahead, in my path. The indistinct outline moved slowly toward me, stirring alarm which slowed, then halted my steps in the middle of the path. Motionless, I prayed the shadowy form would resolve itself into an invention of my weary mind. Instead, it approached me, and a male voice spoke my name. I willed my body to flee to the schoolhouse and bolt the door after me, but my limbs would not obey.

Katharine, the man repeated. Is that you, Miss Brand?

Yes, Mr. Coleman, I replied, trying to breathe normally upon recognizing the man’s peculiar nasal whine. Thomas Coleman’s tone bespoke grievous woe, even when voicing a simple greeting. I felt my racing heart inside me, heard its thumping in my ears. Yes, it’s Katharine.

You’re late retiring, he said, looming closely now. Perhaps you’ll permit me to escort you to your brüder haus?

I had seen the man around the village. He had spoken up at one or two meetings. He lived with his wife and son in one of the separate houses near the rope factory, where he worked. We had never talked.

It’s but a few steps now, thank you. And good evening to you and Mrs. Coleman, sir.

Ah, well, the evening air is a tonic, he said. I would partake of its healing virtues yet a moment. But I see you are shivering; let me offer you warmth. He wore a long nor’west cloak loosely over his shoulders, and he pulled one side of it up around me, then drew me close against his body.

You are considerate, Mr. Coleman, but I wish only to go to my quarters and rest now.

Too late, I found myself locked firmly in his grasp, being forced from the path and through the apple orchard, toward the coal shed.

Please stop, Mr. Coleman. I must return to my room. I pushed against the arm which tightly encircled my waist; I writhed, trying to break free; my struggle was futile. I took a deep breath, wanting to scream.

His rough hand came abruptly, viciously to my mouth, gripping my jaw, then moved to my throat and cinched down, cruelly, while he pulled my face to his. Even in the dim light I could not mistake the animus in his eyes, nor could I escape the licorice and whiskey and sweat stench of him in my nostrils as he uttered, in his grating, raspy whine, what would be his final words.

Keep your quiet, sweet sister. Fail that, and my knife will silence your scream before it can reach your ear! For long enough I have watched you, Miss Katharine. I will have you now.

It may have been brief, I suspect, though time was poorly measured under the merciless wrenching and stabbing and tearing which burned itself into my soul. It was as if there had been no life before this terror, no hope for life beyond it, that this agonizing abomination was everything, from beginning to end of my being, and I could but beseech the Lord to let that end come quickly.

To my everlasting shame, he fulfilled his grim words. He cast my naked soul into an abyss whose sheer ice-covered walls I was powerless to scale. When I am called to account for my own mortal sin, which followed closely upon the heels of Thomas Coleman’s deed, I am prepared to accept banishment from the heavens in preference to immortality in the company of a God who failed to find compassion for my act.

When, at length, the man fell limp upon me then rolled slowly to his back on the grass, releasing my wrists at last, I reached cautiously to the bob of my hair and withdrew my stickpin barrette. Pressing myself up onto one hand and grasping the barrette firmly in the other, I listened for a moment as he breathed his heavy, wheezing rhythms. Then I spoke quietly.

Mr. Coleman.

He did not move. I spoke his name again, and in the dim light I saw his eyes open slowly. A twisted smile formed on his lips. In that instant my hand descended, propelled as if by a massive sledge, plunging the spike into the center of his eye, up to the brass hilt. An animal scream rose from his throat as he thrashed and tore at his eyes. He sprang to his feet and lunged, crouching, first this way then that, wailing piteously, until with a sickening thump he ran the top of his head at full flight into the trunk of a stout tree, and collapsed in a heap.

I staggered to my feet and, bracing one hand against the coal shed, moved along its wall to a pile of boulders where workmen had begun to build a fire pit. Grasping the heaviest rock I believed I could lift, I carried it to where Mr. Coleman lay on his back, stunned and moaning. With all the strength I could muster, I raised the massive stone and plunged it full upon the bleeding socket from which his flailing hands had torn the useless eye, bringing a hideous finale to the work my barrette had begun.

I stumbled out to the path and ran, whimpering, to my dark room. I wanted desperately to leave Myra undisturbed. In my closet I lighted a simple bitch lamp and tore my bloody skirts away from my shaking body. I scrubbed myself with lye soap; I mixed alum powder first, then vinegar, using each in the syringe I had brought with me from Boston. I fought to keep my senses, commanding myself not to faint from the pain my actions brought. I stopped trying to cleanse myself only when my water pitcher was empty. Creeping to my bed opposite Myra’s, I listened for her breathing. My hoped-for interlude with dreams of Malcolm became, instead, a petition for release from the burning torture of my body and the despair of my spirit. I knew, nevertheless, my soiling was beyond the powers of any earthly cleansing agent and, likely, beyond the capacity of any man to forgive.

_____________

Malcolm, Myra and I had been among the first to answer Owen’s call to utopia. I had forsaken my budding teaching career in Boston to follow my dream of a perfect society, and had dedicated myself to establishing the most progressive education system to be found in the New World.

That this simple schoolteacher would be caught up in such a fabulous notion was remarkable enough. That the venture should have brought me the joy of newfound love in the gentle arms of Malcolm Sinclair was more than my heart had dreamed possible. That the glorious promise of achievement and beauty in my life should be shattered by the explosion of terror in that evil night, was beyond my powers of assimilation.

Until then, the world around me had become richer, drawn more vividly in splendid colors, children’s laughter more musical, hearts of members more altruistic, the entire universe more filled with grandeur. The times apart from Malcolm had come to be eternities, the moments we shared too few, too brief. Yet, even when we were apart, my soul was expanded, enlarged by his.

But the savage business left me shaken, unable to speak coherently beyond rudimentary communications. Members speculated endlessly over the mysterious tragedy of Thomas Coleman and wept their sympathy for the widow and her son, while I struggled in the stuporous, dream-like haze in which my mind was lost, ordering my eyes to see, my lungs to breathe, my hands to carry food and drink to my lips, my feet to take steps, for they appeared incapable of their simplest routines without command.

In a more lucid moment I was filled with sudden alarm upon recalling that my barrette must have fallen near Mr. Coleman’s body, and that someone might be capable of associating it with me. I tried to reassure myself that even if it had been found, no one would have reason to think it mine—except of course Malcolm, who had presented me with the matched pair of gold-mounted pins during the previous week. In spite of myself, and against good judgment, I was drawn back to the scene of terror late of an afternoon, to scour the area while no others were nearby. I found no trace of the item. I told myself a child at play likely had encountered it and carried it away in triumph, excited that her day had yielded such a treasure.

Some part of me must have grasped the necessity to appear nonchalant. In some manner, that element of my mind functioned to direct my dismal new acting career, my assigned role that of an affable young school marm in a socialist utopian colony.

I know not how skillfully my part was played, only that my prayers shaped themselves into two elements, the first a heartfelt expression of gratitude that, thus far, no question had been put to me about the man Thomas Coleman. The second element was a petition for release from my earthly perdition, either to be restored to whatever mission in life He might assign, or to permit my spirit’s escape from this shell of clay whose image in my mirror so filled me with loathing.

My crime and the crime against me would inevitably be linked, should one or the other be revealed; of this I was certain. My impulse to confess the murder made its own compelling argument to my anguished mind, and might have prevailed, had I not weighed in the balance the consequence of Malcolm’s discovery of my despoiled condition. On one instance some rational element of my thought entertained itself with a foolish conundrum: ‘What manner of woman is it who is prepared to confess to murder, yet is loath to risk a lover’s rejection of his tarnished paramour?’

Malcolm’s love, generous and unequivocal, was the most precious gift my life had known. It was he, most particularly, I feared might discern my guilty secret, inasmuch as it was to Malcolm Sinclair, and to no other mortal, I had presented without reserve not merely the secret parts and passions of my body, but the most intimate longings and commitments of my mind, the most deeply held convictions of my spirit as to the meaning of this earthly sphere and the mysteries of God’s purpose in engineering it.

In his quiet comprehension and affirmation of the vital substance of my soul Malcolm spoke his love, and I returned it freely, in full measure, beyond what I had believed was my capacity to love. I had lain with him, and so I knew him, yet I knew him not; I feared losing the wondrous gift of the beautiful spirit within him, this gift so newly found, for I knew no means to enquire if his love could withstand the consciousness of my condition, short of confessing it.

When he found me then in my quarters, on a quiet evening after chores were done, and sought explanation for my distance, my unsteady hands and quavering voice threatened to divulge that which I most dreaded. Perhaps I would prove less proficient as a liar than as a murderer, being more practiced in the latter.

It has been an unsettling time for everyone, I said, as if the obvious had been made known exclusively to me. We’ve all been distracted.

Of course, Katharine, Malcolm agreed. But there are matters we must consider; their urgency forbids delay.

Yours is a grim face. Have you been in conversation with Mr. Owen again? I asked, trying feebly at humor for the first time in the weeks since that dark night.

There are other circumstances which can produce a sober face as well as a meeting with our friend Robert, he said, laughing without enthusiasm.

And what might those be?

Katharine, I bear a heavy burden. The matters we must speak of—they will be hard to hear.

He paused, eyes cast down. My mind reeled with the sudden fear that he had discovered my terrible secret, and was about to explain his duty to so advise the authorities.

Malcolm, I said when the silence became unbearable, I never wanted it to happen . . . Nor did I, he broke in, but it did happen, didn’t it Katharine. I believe our love was always there, from before we were born, awaiting only our finding each other, and then, and then, it was so full, so complete, so undeniable. Oh! Katharine, I have wronged you, and I fear you can only despise me now, but you must know. There’s no other way.

He fell silent again, and as the silence lengthened, my fear grew. What could be so difficult to say, yet so demanding of expression?

You know less of me than you believed, he said slowly. That you never demanded my history or pedigree only made me love you the more.

And I would say as much of you; for aught you know I have a trunk of skeletons hidden in that closet! Too easily emboldened, I had trodden dangerously, and wished I could unsay my words. But he appeared unaware of my concern. His tight jaw bespoke resolve, and readiness to speak his troubled mind.

"Here, where there is to be neither wealth nor poverty, I was fearful your knowledge of my past might obscure the truth that we had discovered between us. Since joining with Owen, I have withheld judgment about the man, and about his grand scheme. I have also withheld most of my material goods, and Robert, knowing of my resources, has pressed me to consecrate everything I own. I have stubbornly refused, not because I am a penurious Scotsman, but because of my reservations about the experiment, about the many misbegotten parasites who daily find their way to this outpost and, most especially, about my failure to ensure a place here for a Christian believer. I am finally persuaded that Robert Owen, pure and noble as his motives may be, is at best a deist, at worst an atheist, and that he will not be reformed.

My period of investigation has ended, Katharine. This Community is not for me—and I venture to say it should not be for you, either. Without declaring yourself such, I daresay you are the most truly Christian woman I have ever met, not excluding my own angel mother, God rest her soul.

I must say that’s an impressive oration for a Scotsman! I teased, but I fail to see why it should be so painful to deliver! Is it that you seek an easy way to say ‘goodbye?’ If that’s what it comes to, I’ll remind you of our past discussions on the subject of this Community, on the whole notion of all things in common, and on our mutual doubts of Mr. Owen’s potential for salvation! All that grist has been run through our mill. Whatever way we’ve turned the question, the answer always contained the possibility we’d choose to return to the outside world. Did you now think to leave without me, Malcolm Sinclair? At journey’s end you’d discover a heavy trunk, me inside, and your other property missing! There, now. How does my speech stand up to yours?

There’s more, Katharine. I can’t avoid it any longer. I . . . have a family in New York. I have a wife, and I have a son, and I have an indelible mark on my soul for having betrayed your trust, and theirs.

I heard his words. Part of my mind understood their meaning. I glanced at his face hoping beyond hope there would be some hint of that mischievous twinkle I found so charming. The tears on his cheeks told me the time for poesy had ended. I could bear to look at him no more.

Please go, I said. My voice shook badly. Please leave now before I dissolve.

He moved toward me, reached out to touch my shoulder. I wanted to enfold him in my arms, to clasp him to my bosom and scream for all the world to hear that Malcolm Sinclair was mine, that no one should dare take him from me. Yet I shrank from his touch.

Leave, now, I said, still unable to meet his eyes. Don’t soil your hands again, not ever. I have learned tonight what my punishment is to be. Katharine, please, he said, there is more you must know.

Not ever, I repeated, and I opened the door for him to leave. I looked only to the floor, hoping my eyes might remain dry a moment longer. I closed the door softly after him, turned to walk to my closet, and saw the room swinging wildly and turning dark.

I do not believe I lost consciousness. Nevertheless I found myself dazed, seated on the floor of the room Myra and I shared, repeating the words, ‘It’s finished.’ It seemed my life had begun and ended, all in the course of a few scant weeks in the Indiana wilderness. I wept. Throwing myself on my bed and sobbing like a child, I mourned the death of a phantasm.

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Myra was always well ahead, but not so far as to lose sight of me. In my darkest moments of angry retreat into my icy cavern, when I was least capable of generous thought or kindly discourse, she was like a campfire in my wilderness, waiting for me to raise my eyes from whatever primitive torment held them down, to discover the direction and light and warmth she offered, demanding nothing, only inviting me to reach out when ready, and receive. It happened slowly. The quiet force of her love enabled me to see beyond the barrier of numbness in which I had enveloped myself, and gave me strength to grasp what was happening to New Harmony’s young. The playful, carefree, sing-song rhythms of childhood were dying away moment by moment, like the music of a band of minstrels disappearing over the horizon. Eyes that once sparkled still looked at my flannel board, but seemed to behold a different scene, one I could not share. My brooding over personal misfortune would lend them small comfort.

Conditions of families grew increasingly desperate, and could be ignored only at the peril of the Community. Members faced the choice of grossly inadequate housing or none. The insect-infested swamps of the region had been poorly drained. Mosquitoes swarmed day and night, making life an incessant struggle to protect oneself. Debilitating fever wracked the bodies of old and young, who found neither physician nor medicine for remedy. Food production failed to meet the increasing demand, and there was no rational plan for its supply and distribution.