An Unexpected Altar
Today is my wedding day. I should be brimming with joy, my heart fluttering with nervous excitement. Instead, I stand before the mirror, a stranger staring back at me, her green eyes wide with barely concealed panic.
I smooth down the simple white dress I’ve borrowed, remembering the grand affairs I’d seen in London shop windows. How different this is from the wedding I’d once imagined. But then, nothing about my life in Utah has been what I imagined.
It was barely a year ago that my family first heard the Mormon missionaries speak in a small hall near our flat in London. Their words ignited something in all of us - a yearning for purpose, for a grander design. We were swept up in their tales of a promised land across the ocean, where God’s chosen people were building Zion.
My parents, fervent in their new faith, decided I should go ahead to prepare the way. At seventeen, I bid a tearful farewell to my family, promising to help them settle once they arrived. The journey was long and arduous, but hope burned bright within me.
That hope flickered and nearly died the day I arrived in Salt Lake City. As I stepped off the wagon, weary but exhilarated, I overheard two women gossiping about “Brother Brigham’s new wife.” It took me several moments to understand, and several more to believe.
Polygamy. The word felt foreign on my tongue, sharp and bitter. How could this be God’s will? Why hadn’t the missionaries spoken of this? What would my parents think when they arrived?
In the weeks that followed, I learned the harsh realities of life as a young, single woman in this strange new world. Resources were scarce, and those without immediate family or connections struggled to survive. When it was suggested that I marry the prophet himself, I felt the walls closing in around me.
And now, here I stand. In mere hours, I’ll become the newest Mrs. Young. Not the blushing bride I’d dreamed of being, but one of many - a number, not a name. How will I explain this to my family when they arrive?
I catch my reflection’s eye once more, seeing the fear there, but also a flicker of steely determination. I’ve crossed an ocean and a continent to be here. I’ve left behind everything familiar, sent ahead as a pioneer for my family’s new life. Several in my party died as we crossed the Great Plains of America. There’s no safe way back to England, Manchester may as well be on the moon.
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. I may not have chosen this, but I will survive it. I have to believe that somewhere in this vast, unforgiving land, there’s still a place for the dreams of a girl from London. And perhaps, in time, I can make sense of this new world for my family when they join me.
As I prepare for the ceremony, my mind drifts to the man I’m about to marry. Brigham Young is not what one would call desirable, at least not in the way I’d once dreamed of a husband. He’s a stout man in his early fifties, with a square face framed by graying whiskers. His eyes are sharp and calculating, set deep beneath a furrowed brow that speaks of years of hard decisions. There’s a hardness to his mouth, a perpetual downward turn that rarely softens into a smile.
Yet, it’s not his appearance that truly matters here. Brigham Young is power personified in this territory. His influence extends into every corner of Salt Lake City and beyond. I’ve heard whispers that there isn’t a business or venture in Utah that doesn’t bear his fingerprints in some way.
This marriage, I’ve come to understand, is as much a business arrangement as anything else. By agreeing to become one of his wives, I’m ensuring my safety and prosperity in this harsh new world. It’s a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. I’ll have food on my table, a roof over my head, and a measure of respect that comes with the Young name.
More importantly, when my family arrives, I’ll be in a position to help them. As Brigham Young’s wife, I’ll have access to resources and connections that could make the difference between my family thriving or merely surviving in this unforgiving land.
It’s not love, not even close. But it’s security. And in this strange new world where I find myself so utterly alone, security feels like the closest thing to love I can hope for.
