by Janette Oke
Books by Janette Oke and Laurel Oke Logan
WHEN HOPE CALLS
Unyielding Hope
RETURN TO THE CANADIAN WEST
Where Courage Calls • Where Trust Lies • Where Hope Prevails
Dana’s Valley
Also look for Janette Oke: A Heart for the Prairie by Laurel Oke Logan
Books by Janette Oke
Return to Harmony* • Another Homecoming* • Tomorrow’s Dream*
ACTS OF FAITH*
The Centurion’s Wife • The Hidden Flame • The Damascus Way
CANADIAN WEST
When Calls the Heart • When Comes the Spring • When Breaks the Dawn When Hope Springs New • Beyond the Gathering Storm • When Tomorrow Comes
LOVE COMES SOFTLY
Love Comes Softly • Love’s Enduring Promise • Love’s Long Journey
Love’s Abiding Joy • Love’s Unending Legacy • Love’s Unfolding Dream
Love Takes Wing • Love Finds a Home
A PRAIRIE LEGACY
The Tender Years • A Searching Heart • A Quiet Strength • Like Gold Refined
SEASONS OF THE HEART
Once Upon a Summer • The Winds of Autumn
Winter Is Not Forever • Spring’s Gentle Promise
SONG OF ACADIA*
The Meeting Place • The Sacred Shore • The Birthright
The Distant Beacon • The Beloved Land
WOMEN OF THE WEST
The Calling of Emily Evans • Julia’s Last Hope • Roses for Mama
A Woman Named Damaris • They Called Her Mrs. Doc
The Measure of a Heart • A Bride for Donnigan • Heart of the Wilderness
Too Long a Stranger • The Bluebird and the Sparrow
A Gown of Spanish Lace • Drums of Change
* with Davis Bunn
© 2020 by Janette Oke and Laurel Oke Logan
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2020
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-2515-0
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by LOOK Design Studio
Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC
To Janette’s grandchildren:
Vladimir and Anastasia, Laurel’s children,
and Ambrosia, Lavon’s daughter,
who were all adopted into our Oke family
and who are so precious to us.
And to our two ancestors who actually came from England to Canada as Home Children,
much like the characters in this novel:
Edward Oke, Laurel’s great-great-grandfather, crossed the Atlantic at age fourteen to find his new family, and Daisy Oke, his adopted granddaughter, joined the family years later the same way.
And lastly, this book is written with great regard for other Home Children and their families.
Contents
Cover 1
Half Title Page 2
Books by Janette Oke and Laurel Oke Logan 3
Title Page 4
Copyright Page 5
Dedication 6
Preface 9
1. Lillian 13
2. Lemuel 31
3. Grace 41
4. The City 54
5. Discovery 61
6. Crossroads 84
7. Adjustments 103
8. Bryony 117
9. School 135
10. Hazel 151
11. Guests 168
12. Doctor Shepherd 182
13. Matty and Milton 196
14. Picnic 211
15. Hope Valley 224
16. Gifts 246
17. George 258
18. Marisol 278
19. Thief 291
20. Sacrifice 303
21. Kin 314
Epilogue 330
About the Authors 333
Back Ads 335
Cover Flaps 338
Back Cover 339
Preface
It started out so promising. Annie MacPherson, a Scottish Quaker, and many others were determined to help the impoverished children of Great Britain but quickly found themselves overwhelmed by the size of the problem of poverty and its horrendous impact on children and families. During the 1800s, the Industrial Revolution lured people away from the English farms and hamlets into the overcrowded cities, where diseases spread quickly. So the idea of sending street children and orphans to other countries within the British Empire—to Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and regions of Africa—must have seemed inspired at the time. These needy kids came to be called Home Children, and the movement spread to such an extent that it’s estimated that one out of every ten Canadians is related to one of these immigrants.
In theory, these children would be sent to families who had the means to care for them far from England’s slums and workhouses. Their new homes would be places with fresh air and bountiful farmland—where scant populations would actually benefit from new residents. Between 1869 and the 1930s, more than 100,000 children were shipped out from England, quite literally. Imagine moving as a helpless child from the alleys of London to Australia, New Zealand, Africa, or the seemingly endless prairies of Canada!
The Canadian government was grateful to participate, pleased to have the new residents and happy to collect a small sum for each child. Canadian citizens, too, seemed hopeful about the program. There reportedly was an average of seven applications for every child entering the country this way. The young nation needed more settlers, more workers, more citizens—even England’s children would be welcomed, particularly boys old enough to work. In the United States there was a similar program of “orphan trains” that originated in the crowded American East and carried the children into the West.
But all of the good intentions frequently turned tragic. For one thing, the children were routinely trained with practical skills, and so they came to be marketed by many along the way as free labor rather than new family members. Even the contracts that were signed by both family and child sounded much more like indentured servitude than adoption. Typically, the terms stated that the child would be educated, receive a small allowance for his or her labor, and would complete his or her responsibilities at age eighteen. What had been intended as genuine benevolence sadly transformed into an immigration scheme.
And even more tragic, abuse was not uncommon and the intended evaluations of the children’s welfare post-placement didn’t always take place. It wasn’t until the 1980s that research done by Margaret Humphreys began to expose the extent of the failure. These revelations eventually caused some of the nations involved to apologize for their participation—far too late to change the circumstances, of course. The children in our novel have stories compiled from actual accounts and situations faced by Home Children. Sadly, the following fictional accounts are not overstated at all for dramatic effe
ct.
But hardest of all to hear are the stories told by elderly adults who were themselves Home Children. Many rarely spoke of their tragic childhood, preferring not to admit their past even to their own descendants. Why? Because of the dreadful stigma of being called “gutter rats” and being outcasts. People of the time considered orphans from the workhouses to be just a step above those gathered from the streets. Common belief held that they’d never amount to anything, would become thieves and thugs like their good-for-nothing parents clearly had been. Public opinion was far from openhearted. It was this stigma that prompted these aged immigrants to weep as they told their stories at last for posterity.
It’s a lesson for us today if we choose to listen. We also have children within our communities in desperate need of homes and permanent families. But it’s not as simple as just removing them from “bad” homes and placing them in the care of the state—or even finding “better” homes and then considering the job complete, as well intentioned as this may be. Any child who has lost his or her birth family is wounded deeply. It doesn’t matter if they were infants at the time. It doesn’t matter how awful their original situation was. Losing your first family—your birth mother, your birth father, your biological siblings—leaves a deep, deep wound. In fact, new research suggests through use of brain scans that these children are often measurably affected, particularly if abuse was a factor.
They need love, acceptance, affirmation, and healing. For most, it takes a lifetime of restoration in stages. Internally, the questions often nag well into their adult lives: Am I worthy of love? Will I be rejected again? Am I different than others?
We pray we’d learn the lessons from history so we won’t repeat mistakes. The Bible says that if we give charity without love we gain nothing. Children are never just wards to administrate. They’re uniquely created individuals. And though they may seem resilient on the outside, we can’t overestimate the complexities of the heart and soul of a person, and the impact of trauma in early life. Only as we love those around us and really listen when they speak can we be the hands and feet of Jesus to the “least of these.” Are we ready to make a difference, to meet the challenges we face in our own generation? That’s the enduring question.
For more information:
https://canadianbritishhomechildren.weebly.com
http://www.britishhomechildrenregistry.com
CHAPTER 1
Lillian
Mama.” The word came quietly at first, then grew in intensity. “Mama! Mama!” Lillian’s small body wrestled in the dark bedroom until her thick quilt became tangled, constricting around her tiny shoulders. Still the nightmare persisted. Droplets of sweat formed beneath her hair and began to slide in lines down her neck, soaking into her flannel nightgown. She fought with frail arms against the bondage that her blankets had become. “Mama, where are you?”
Abruptly, the slit of light tracing her door broadened into a halo around a slender form. “Lillian, I’m here. My sweet girl, what’s wrong?”
Wincing at the brightness of the hallway, the child closed her eyes again. Her mind was clouded and slow. “No, no, no.” A sense of terror clung stubbornly.
Soothing hands untangled the folds of blanket, tenderly pulling her upward into a gentle embrace. “It’s Mother. I’m here.”
Lillian pushed futilely against the arms, her young mind still refusing to comprehend. Once more she pleaded, “Mama,” and shrank farther away.
Undaunted, a soft hand brushed back strands of auburn hair and tucked them behind the child’s ear. “Why, you’re wringing wet, dear. Was it another bad dream?” A soft handkerchief began to dab away all traces of sweat and tears.
“Mama.” The plea came softly, with defeat and great sorrow.
“I’m here, Lillian. Mother is here.”
The smell of rain wafted into the parlor. Lillian heard the sound of wind and raindrops playing among the nearby trees. She rose from her chair even before the light shower arrived at the house, a spattering of rain tiptoeing quietly across the lawn. Pushing the pane firmly down into place, she allowed her eyes to scan the narrow hayfield that separated her family’s property from the edge of the small town of Brookfield, Alberta—really just a collection of homes and businesses in a wide valley shadowed by the Rocky Mountains, surrounded in every direction by small farms and sprawling cattle ranches. Modern conveniences for the new century were finally beginning to arrive here. Automobiles were not unusual now in town among the horses and horse-drawn wagons, electricity had reached its spreading branches into many of the homes, replacing the old gaslights, and that first single telephone line had now multiplied into many. Father was anxious for them to have a telephone box hanging on the wall of the kitchen here in their own home. It was something of a point of pride to him. And he’d surely have achieved it by now—except for that one narrow hayfield standing between their property and modern progress.
It didn’t matter to Lillian. She loved her home, loved the quiet, loved the dusty old barn that now housed only their faithful automobile and a few chickens. This was where she’d grown up. Truly, everyone she knew lived nearby. Of course, she’d expected to be married and in her own house now that she was in her mid-twenties, but life hadn’t taken her along the anticipated paths. In fact, in recent years the town had come to feel increasingly distant, unfamiliar. She frowned and let the white lace curtains fall back into order. Cool rain pattered delicately on the windowsill outside. At least she’d stopped it from ruining Mother’s favorite carpet.
She stepped out from behind the sofa and managed to bang her shin against a sharp edge. “Oh fiddlesticks! Father, weren’t the deliverymen supposed to be here by now? I keep tripping over these trunks.”
His voice called from where he sat at the table in the dining room organizing lecture notes. “I can’t make them come any sooner by willing them here. Be patient.”
Patient? Which of us needs patience? Their upcoming trip across the ocean to Wales had not been Lillian’s idea. It was entirely Father’s. His business ideas, his solutions for better refrigerated railroad cars, would be further advanced by his speaking engagements. His hard work had always provided them with a comfortable lifestyle and financial stability. However, if it had been left up to Lillian, she would have preferred to allow at least a few more months to pass before forsaking this home. Still, she knew there was no point in raising her objections again. Father had been very firm in setting his plan into motion. There were railroads in Great Britain too. And they would benefit from hearing about Father’s patents.
“But I’m not ready yet,” she whispered aloud sorrowfully. Though she hadn’t found the words to explain her feelings to Father, it was as if Mother were still present here somehow, as if the years of losing her so, so slowly had all been a bad dream. Oh, God, if only . . . Immediately she corrected herself. I don’t mean to accuse You, Lord. And yet, her stubborn heart contended that no one could love another so much and feel any differently. Is it even being faithful to Mother’s memory to let go of her so soon—so easily? How can Father . . . ?
Lillian’s shin had begun to throb. She pursed her lips together hard and dropped into an armchair. One hand raised the hem of her long skirt while the other pulled away the edge of the torn stocking to expose broken skin.
Oh dear! As if the stinging wound had weakened her ability to stifle internal pain, her thoughts tumbled silently over the same questions. It just isn’t fair. It’s too much! Why would You take my mothers? Ashamed again of her ungovernable thoughts, Lillian bit her lip. I’m not blaming You, God. At least, I’m trying not to. Honestly, I am trying. But I just don’t understand. Will You ever tell me why You took them—both of them?
It had been difficult to fight back so many bouts of tears through the weeks that had followed her adopted mother’s death. Weary with the constant effort, Lillian allowed herself this moment of weakness. She raised the corner of her apron and buried her face against it, letting the sorrows begin to
flow.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
She hadn’t heard Father enter the parlor, and his concerned words startled her out of her lapse of control.
Her head dropped lower. “I’m fine. Well, that is, I bumped my shin.”
Instantly, he came near to inspect the damage. “Oh, my dear, you’ll certainly have a nice bruise there. Do you want some ice for the swelling? I could ask Miss Clare to chip some from the icebox. She’s in the middle of making dinner by now, but I’m sure she’d . . .”
Lillian nudged the folds of her hem down into place. “Oh no, it’s not worth the trouble. She has plenty to do. And I’m fine.” Quickly dabbing her apron against her cheeks again to remove any evidence of her tears, she rose to her feet and, hoping to divert his attention and get her feelings back under safe control, she hurried on. “Are you planning to pack away the garden tools or just leave them where they are? Remember, you worried that they might rust before we return.”
“I guess I’d forgotten about the shed. Well, I suppose we’d better move them to the cellar. But, Lillian, are you certain you don’t want ice?”
“I’m fine. Really. There’s just so much to get done and so little time.”
“That’s my little soldier. Keep striding on, eh?”
“That’s right, Father.” She managed a half smile. Still . . .
Lillian had always found relief in work. Through the difficult years, she’d managed to distract herself from many unpleasant feelings with the comfort of labor. It had been easier to be useful rather than honest—at least with Father. Mother had always seen through such charades. Lillian’s lip threatened to quiver again and she rushed out the back door toward the shed, where she could hide from inquisitive eyes.
As she jerked open the rickety door and hurried inside to escape the light rain, she paused to let her mind go back over all the reasons it was understandable to feel as she did. For one thing, she remembered very little about her birth parents, who had died of tuberculosis along with her younger sister while Lillian was still a small girl. There were very few images left in her memory of that first family—as if it had been easier to close a mental door over that life. Admittedly, there’d been no overt encouragement to recall them.