The Betrayal

  THE BETRAYAL

  Brides of Gabriel

  DIANE NOBLE

  Dedication

  I dedicate this series to the One who walks beside me

  through life’s valleys and leads me to the high places;

  to the One who never fails to show me

  the breadth and depth of His tender mercies;

  to the One who fills my heart with an abundance of grace

  and wraps me, flaws and all, in a love so strong

  that nothing I do can ever change how He feels about me.

  I also dedicate this series to those loved ones

  who have given me the gift of better understanding

  this story and its characters

  because you are living examples of God’s amazing

  forgiveness, grace, and compassion.

  I celebrate you and thank God that you are in my life!

  Epigraph

  O, how this spring of love resembleth

  The uncertain glory of an April day;

  Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,

  And by and by a cloud takes all away.

  —Shakespeare, The Two Gentlemen of Verona

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Part II

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Part III

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Novels by Diane Noble

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  When Mary Rose married Gabe,

  she never expected to share him.

  Enter the riveting world of the Brides of Gabriel.

  Mary Rose is a young Mormon convert

  of aristocratic English blood.

  Bronwyn is a beautiful young widow with a baby.

  And Enid, Gabe’s first love, holds a secret

  she’s never revealed . . .

  Prologue

  Nauvoo, Illinois June 1842

  Bronwyn twirled in front of the mirror in the brides’ room, checking the back of the elegant gown loaned to her by Brigham’s wife Mary Ann. Pale blue with ivory lace, it set off her sapphire eyes, her luxurious ebony hair, and skin the color of the finest porcelain—though she would never admit to thinking of her physical appearance in such romantic terms.

  She almost laughed as she twirled again, enjoying her image in the mirror, skirts and petticoats billowing. She leaned closer to the mirror, pleased to see the sparkle of merriment in her eyes, the glow of anticipation in her expression. After all, it was the day she would be sealed to Gabe for eternity. Why not think of herself with a romantic notion or two?

  A twinge of guilt pressed against her heart, but she turned her thoughts to Gabe and the look she hoped to see in his eyes as they knelt, facing each other, and said their vows . . . which made the feelings of guilt return.

  Mary Rose. Her dearest friend in the world. How could it be possible that she was about to become Gabe’s second wife when she loved his first wife like a sister?

  She pinched her cheeks until they were the hue of wild roses, thinking about the plan she and Mary Rose had devised to please the Church leaders, keep Gabe in good standing, and allow her to remain part of the family—just as she and Griffin and Little Grace always had been.

  It would work, she told herself, drawing in a deep breath. It had to. For Mary Rose’s sake, especially. It worried her that Mary Rose hadn’t seemed well earlier that morning, and she planned to pull her aside and reassure her that never would she try to supplant her in Gabe’s affections.

  She only hoped that Mary Rose would arrive with Gabriel well before the ceremony started so they could spend those few moments alone.

  She backed away from the mirror as other brides arrived to ready themselves. As the door opened and closed, the jangle and rattle of horse-drawn carriages and the low bursts of chatter carried toward her. After a moment, it became apparent that the excited voices that had drifted in from outside came from the grooms, not the brides. Most of the women appeared subdued, some of the younger ones even frightened.

  As the time neared for all to have arrived, Bronwyn went to the door of the meetinghouse and peered out at the street. Carriages and horses lined up, empty of their passengers, but there was no sign of Gabe and Mary Rose.

  One of the brides, a sad-looking young woman with red-rimmed eyes and trembling hands, spotted Bronwyn and slipped away from a group of three brides.

  “I heard you’re marrying Brother MacKay,” she said.

  Bronwyn couldn’t help the little smile of pride that tugged the corner of her lips upward. She nodded as the woman continued. “I’ve noticed him before. He’s a fine-looking man.”

  “ ’Tis true.” Still standing at the door, Bronwyn let her gaze drift away from the woman’s probing scrutiny back to the street, thinking about Gabe, how she’d admired him from the first moment she saw him, long before he and Mary Rose fell in love.

  That first moment . . . the day they boarded the Sea Hawk in Liverpool and Coal climbed the topmast. He’d perched there, frightening the wits out of every passenger and seaman on deck. Gabe had climbed up after him as if he’d been born with all the strength and humor needed to rescue errant boys.

  She could never have imagined how their lives would intertwine. Griffin, the man she would love forever, had been at her side, and they were expecting their first child. She didn’t imagine then the loss that would soon break her heart. Neither could she have foreseen that one day—this day—she would become Gabriel MacKay’s bride, his second. And that his first wife, Mary Rose, would have become the dearest friend she’d ever known.

  Oh, Mary Rose, hurry! . . . She couldn’t walk down the aisle without her. She hadn’t asked, but she wanted Mary Rose to walk with her to Gabriel, their hands clasped in a silent agreement of sisterhood and faithfulness to their plan.

  “Where is he?” The woman interrupted Bronwyn’s thoughts. “Your Gabriel, I mean,” she added, noticing Bronwyn’s confused expression. “Shouldn’t he be here by now?”

  She snapped back to the present. Her Gabriel? “He . . . he should have been here . . . He felt things were getting awkward with Mary Ro— with his first wife and that it might be easier if . . .” Taking a deep breath, she began again. “Brigham came for Little Grace and me, and his wife Mary Ann helped me dress for the wedding at their home. She’s keeping Little Grace fo
r me while I—” She stopped to listen as she heard another carriage round the corner.

  She flew to the door and stepped outside, just in time to see it rattle by without stopping.

  Brigham came up behind her, his forehead furrowed. He had no need to ask the obvious question. Bronwyn shook her head. “I don’t know what’s keeping Brother Gabriel.”

  Brigham pulled out a pocket watch. “It’s not like him to be late.” He gave Bronwyn a piercing look. “I suggest you return to the brides’ room and await your groom. We’ll start as soon as Brother Gabriel and Sister Mary Rose arrive.”

  “I’ll need a few minutes to talk to Sister Mary Rose before we begin.”

  “Not unless they arrive soon.” He smiled. “There will be plenty of time afterward for sister-wife talk, believe me, Sister Bronwyn.”

  He took her elbow to guide her back to the meetinghouse, reached for the door and opened it so she could enter.

  Bronwyn stopped just short of entering.

  Mary Rose.

  It took only a half heartbeat for Bronwyn’s mind to whirl with the possibilities. The pregnancy. The swollen, distraught look of Mary Rose that morning. The sounds of weeping in the night.

  What if . . . ? She didn’t complete the thought, remembering the weariness like unto death itself the morning before Little Grace was born.

  Bronwyn took a step backward, almost knocking Brigham off balance; she turned, gathered her full skirts, and hurried toward the street. “I’m going to find them,” she called over her shoulder. “You can start without us.”

  She didn’t bother to stop to ask for approval—or even to see what was surely a look of stunned disapproval on Brigham’s face. Instead, she turned her attention to the unattended carriages and wagons lined up in front of the meetinghouse.

  She made a beeline toward a lone horse tethered to a hitching post just beyond the last carriage—a gleaming black beast with an arched neck, sleek head, and intelligent eyes. As she placed a foot in the stirrup and swung her leg over the hand-tooled leather and silver saddle, her dress bunching up to her knees, she swallowed a smile. She would have laughed if she hadn’t been so worried about Mary Rose. In the old days, she and Mary Rose would have giggled together over such a sight.

  She heard a familiar voice shouting from the front of the meetinghouse. Without a glance toward the man, she leaned close to the horse’s neck. “Go, boy,” she cried, pressing her heels into his flanks. She hoped the beast would respond to the voice of someone other than his master’s—especially since it was his master doing the shouting, commanding him to halt.

  But the horse—the pride of Brigham’s stables—appeared to be quite content with Bronwyn on his back. He took off like a fox after prey, and as soon as they were on the open road, she let him take the lead. He seemed to sense the urgency and galloped with hurricane force toward the MacKay farm.

  As they raced along, Bronwyn leaning low over the horse’s neck, she watched the road ahead, hoping to see the telltale dust of a carriage coming toward her. She had no desire to return to the meetinghouse to go through with the marriage, but she wanted to know her friend was well. Right now, that was all that mattered.

  They rose to the top of a small knoll, and in the distance lay the farm. She slowed the horse and took in the scene, searching for anything that seemed amiss. The landscape was bathed in sunlight, just as it had been earlier that morning. Even with the warmth of the sun on her shoulders, a shiver traveled up her spine.

  Something was wrong. The house was too quiet. Where were the children? And Cordelia, who’d offered to watch them during the marriage festivities?

  Her mouth went dry, and her heart thudded with fear for her friend as she urged the horse to a gallop once more.

  Gabe must have heard the thundering hoofbeats. He ran from the house, and even before she reached him, she could see his pale, disheveled appearance. And the blood on his shirt.

  Bile rose in her throat as she drew back hard on the reins. The beast halted and reared. She patted his neck to calm him and then dismounted. Gabe ran to her and grasped her hands. His expression told her more than words ever could.

  “Mary Rose?” she whispered.

  His voice choked. “How—” His gaze shot to the horse, then back to her. “How did you know to come? She needs you . . . We need you.”

  “Is she upstairs?” She didn’t want to cry, so she kept her focus on his eyes instead of his blood-stained shirt. “How bad is it?”

  “Go to her. Quickly.” He squeezed her hands before letting go. When she glanced at the panting horse, he added, “I’ll take care of him. Just go to her, please.”

  Lifting her skirts, Bronwyn raced up the front steps.

  Mary Rose’s face was the same shade of white as the pillowslip beneath her head. Her closed eyelids didn’t flicker, and her soft breathing was almost inaudible.

  Bronwyn bent over the bed and gently took Mary Rose’s face between both hands. “Dearest one,” she whispered, “can you hear me?” No response. She embraced her friend, kissed her cheek, and whispered again. “Mary Rose, it’s Bronwyn. I’m here.”

  “She fell,” Gabe said from the doorway. “She’s been unconscious since. I don’t think she even knows about the . . .” His voice choked, and he walked across the room. “I did the best I could . . . but the infant was so small, so delicate. He couldn’t even take his first breath. I tried . . . I even tried to clear his throat with my fingers. Breathe air into him.” He had reached the bed and came around to kneel beside it opposite Bronwyn. He reached for Mary Rose’s hand, kissed it, and, still holding it, dropped his head.

  His voice was ragged as he whispered, “Forgive me, my love. I brought this on you . . . on us. Our baby . . . Too much to forgive . . . Oh, Mary Rose . . .”

  Behind him, in the cradle he’d spent weeks working on in the barn, lay the baby’s body, wrapped in a soft patchwork quilt that Bronwyn had sewn to celebrate the child’s birth.

  Bronwyn left Mary Rose’s side and moved toward the cradle. She sat down beside it, her soiled and wrinkled skirt billowing around her. She gathered the baby into her arms, bringing its still warm body close to her heart. For a moment, she just knelt there, at first rocking and humming a lullaby from her childhood, and then covering the baby’s face with kisses, just as she knew Mary Rose would do.

  The sting of tears rose in the back of her throat. Mary Rose had been there for her to help save the life of Little Grace, but while Mary Rose lay suffering, while her baby tried to make its way into the world, Bronwyn was primping in front of the mirror in the brides’ room. She dropped her head and wept silently.

  She opened the blanket, and holding the wee child in her lap, she touched each finger and toe, and gently smoothed the baby’s head, and examined his tiny seashell ears.

  “I’ll need a pan of warm water,” she said to Gabe after a few minutes. “And some clean rags. It’s time to prepare him.”

  Still on his knees, Gabe turned to her, his expression raw with grief. “I was so busy, first trying to save him, then so afraid I would lose Mary Rose,” he said, “that I didn’t get a good look at him.”

  She swallowed hard. “Would you like . . . to hold him?” She found the answer in his eyes and laid the child in his arms.

  Gabe drew in a shuddering breath and drew the child close. He bowed his head, touching his forehead to his son’s. His sobs seemed to come from someplace deep within his being, a sound almost unbearable to hear.

  Bronwyn moved closer and wrapped her arms around him, her embrace encompassing both father and son. She laid her head against Gabe’s heaving chest and found unexpected comfort as he leaned into her arms.

  September 1842

  Bronwyn walked along the creek, her hands clasped behind her, trying to find peace somewhere within the muddle of thoughts and feelings. Outwardly, no one could have known the war that waged within her heart; she made sure of that. She went through her days with her usual smiles and laughter, lighten
ing the load where she could for Mary Rose and Cordelia, taking on more than her portion of housework without complaint, teaching the children their lessons, reading to them, singing to them . . . but always aware of Gabe’s presence when he was near.

  Tonight, the household had fallen quiet, the children were in bed, and upstairs Mary Rose sat at her desk, probably writing in her journal. The last crickets of summer sang, and here at the creek, frogs croaked in unison with the babbling of flowing water.

  The stars were just beginning to throw their spangled glory across the sky when Bronwyn heard the back door open and then close. The crunch of footsteps came toward her, and even before he spoke she knew it was Gabe.

  “There you are,” he said, making his way through the foliage. Though she’d taken to coming to the creek each night to sort out her feelings in peace, this was the first time he had followed her.

  She turned as he came toward her.

  “I’d hoped to find you here,” he said. A slow smile took over his face.

  “Did you talk with Mary Rose?” Bronwyn met Gabe’s liquid gaze, trying to keep that tender place in her heart from melting. “Did she give her permission?” She disliked the way her hands shook and her heart pounded as she awaited his answer.

  He took a few steps closer, tucked his crooked index finger beneath her chin, and tilted her face toward his. What the starlight didn’t accomplish, his touch did. She blinked and tried to step back, but her feet remained rooted to the ground. There was a time when she might have run in the opposite direction, but tonight his eyes, his touch, kept her from moving. She was sorry when he withdrew his touch from her face.