The Brightest of Dreams

by Susan Anne Mason

  “The majority of boys are sent to work on farms in the area. It’s not an easy life. I’ll tell you that straight out. And many aren’t treated half as well as the cattle in the barns.”

  “How do you know this?”

  She stared ahead, and for a second Quinn thought she hadn’t heard his question. But then she turned to look at him. “Years ago, my sister and I were brought over on just such a ship, along with a large group of other children. We were taken to the girls’ receiving home in Peterborough.”

  Quinn stiffened on his chair. “That’s where my sister was sent.”

  Mrs. Chamberlain reached over and laid her hand on Quinn’s arm. “I only pray your sister had a better experience than Annie and I did.” Moisture rimmed her eyes. “I made it out alive. Sadly, my sister didn’t.” She pressed her lips together and turned to fumble in her pocket for a handkerchief.

  “I’m so sorry.” Quinn’s throat thickened. “How old were you, if I might ask?”

  “I was nine. Annie twelve. We fought to stay together, but no one wanted two girls. So they sent us to different farms, hundreds of miles apart.” She crumpled the handkerchief between her callused fingers. “It was dreadfully hard work. Up before dawn each day to do all the morning chores—milking cows, collecting eggs, getting the firewood chopped to start the stove. But at least the people who took me in were fairly decent. Unlike Annie’s situation.”

  “She wasn’t treated well?” He hated to ask, dreading the answer.

  She shook her head. “Annie ran away twice, but each time the authorities brought her back. They didn’t seem to care about the bruises covering her body. The farmer said she’d been disobedient and deserved the punishment. Apparently, his word was good enough for them.” Mrs. Chamberlain dabbed her eyes. “If only that was the worst of it.”

  Quinn glanced over at Jonathan, who had remained silent throughout the conversation. But the look of disgust on his face reflected Quinn’s own feelings. “Did she die by the farmer’s hand?” he asked quietly.

  “Not directly, but he’s still to blame. Not only did he mistreat her, he got her pregnant.” She paused. “Annie hanged herself. She was only fifteen, and it was all too much for her to bear.” A tear slid down the woman’s cheek. “I know there’s not much I could have done, but I wish she hadn’t felt so alone. With no other choice.”

  Quinn shook his head, the lemonade souring in his stomach. “I’m very sorry for your loss. I only pray my sister was more fortunate.”

  “I do too.” Mrs. Chamberlain seemed to gather herself. “Perhaps conditions have changed for the better over the years. However, it doesn’t hurt to be prepared for whatever you might find.”

  He nodded and rose. “Well, I’ve taken enough of your time. I’d best find the YMCA before it gets too late. Thank you for the lemonade—and the advice.”

  “You’re most welcome. Oh, you’ll be needing the address.” Mrs. Chamberlain stood and took a slip of paper from her apron. “I wrote it down for you. There’s also the Red Triangle Club, a branch of the Y that caters to soldiers. It’s farther away though, and lately they’ve been full. I think the College Street facility would be a better option.” She handed him the paper. “If you can’t get a room, let me know. I’ll have my friend Reverend Burke see if one of his parishioners can put you up temporarily. And you must join us on Sunday at Holy Trinity Church. The majority of parishioners who attend are originally from Britain, so you’ll feel right at home.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll keep that in mind.” Quinn smiled as he pocketed the address, the tightness in his chest easing for the first time since leaving English soil. Maybe he wasn’t completely alone in this journey after all.

  For the rest of the evening, Harriet couldn’t get Quinten and his siblings out of her mind. All during dinner with her boarders, she could barely keep track of the conversation going on around her. Now, after the day’s chores had been completed, she sat in her favorite armchair in the parlor, trying to gain control of her emotions by reading her Bible.

  Yet her thoughts kept returning to Quinten and his search for his family. She gripped the leather book tighter. The lad’s story had dredged up all the sorrow and despair of her own childhood, feelings she’d thought she’d left firmly in the past—the fear and loneliness of losing her parents and being sent away, the grief at being separated from her dear sister, and the eventual tragedy of losing Annie.

  Clearly, she’d been fooling herself that she’d gotten over these memories. It had taken her a long time to come to terms with Annie’s suicide. Talks with different ministers over the years had helped Harriet come to a place of understanding and peace about it. Yet even though a scab had formed over her wounds, it hadn’t taken much prodding for the bleeding to begin again.

  “Is everything all right, Harriet?” Rev. Burke’s deep baritone shook Harriet from her thoughts.

  She blinked and looked up from the book in her lap. “Geoffrey. I didn’t hear you knock.”

  He smiled as he entered the room. “Clearly not. Which is why I let myself in. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. You know you’re always welcome.” She set her Bible aside and rose. “Let me make us a pot of tea.”

  He came forward to lay a hand on her shoulder. “Tea can wait. Why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you?” Genuine concern radiated from his eyes.

  “It’s nothing, really. Just a foolish old woman reliving events that should remain in the past.”

  He studied her. “What’s happened to bring on this bout of melancholy?”

  She let out a sigh. “A friend of Jonathan and Emma’s came by today. Right off the boat from home.” Harriet twisted the string of beads at her throat. “The young man is looking for his siblings, who were sent here through Dr. Barnardo’s organization, like Annie and I were years ago.”

  “Ah, I see.” Gently, he steered her to the sofa. “It’s brought up all those difficult memories.”

  “It has.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  She sighed. “There’s nothing anyone can do. It will pass. It always does.”

  Geoffrey took a seat beside her and placed his hand over hers. “Is there anything you can think of that might help put the tragedy behind you once and for all? Give you the closure you need?”

  Harriet pulled her hand away. “Put it behind me? Geoffrey, I will never forget what happened to my sister. And I will never stop grieving her loss, no matter how much closure I get.” She stood and walked to the fireplace, where the only photo she had of her sister graced the mantel. The gentle girl with fair hair and wide eyes. Eyes that once sparkled with joy but later knew only despair.

  Geoffrey came up behind her. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to make you feel worse.”

  She brushed at the unexpected dampness on her cheek and turned to look at her friend. He didn’t deserve her sharp tongue. “You’re only trying to help. As always.” She managed a smile. “Besides, what you said isn’t anything new. I’ve thought about it a lot over the years, trying to determine why losing Annie that way continues to haunt me.” She shook her head, the guilt and shame rising up once more. “I don’t even know where she’s buried, or if she has a gravestone. Shouldn’t I at least know that much?” She shivered involuntarily, for that would mean returning to Hazelbrae, something she swore she would never do.

  “You could start by trying to find out.” He studied her as though determining if he should say anything further. “One thing I sometimes advise my grieving parishioners is to find a way to pay tribute to their loved one. Something meaningful to both the deceased and the bereaved.” He paused to stroke his chin. “What if you did something to honor Annie, like plant a tree or start a scholarship in her name? Something that would have meaning for you as well.”

  Harriet’s throat tightened and she nodded. “I’ve often thought about a memorial of some kind but could never decide what might be fitting.” She reached over to pat his arm. �
�Thank you, Geoffrey. This is just what I need. To stop dwelling on the negative and focus on something positive. I will give the whole matter a good deal of consideration.”

  He smiled, crinkles forming around his eyes. “All in a day’s work, my dear.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The Dr. Barnardo receiving home was a very ordinary-looking building. Nothing except the sign above the door indicated its purpose. Quinn forced his feet forward to cross the street, nerves jumbling in the pit of his stomach. What would he learn today about the fate of his brothers? Silently, he offered up a prayer for good news as he entered.

  A large coatrack and umbrella stand graced the musty entranceway. Quinn walked down the hall to what appeared to be a reception desk. A rather severe-looking woman sat entering information in a large book. She looked up when she noticed him and scanned him from the top of his hat to the shoes he’d recently shined in his room at the YMCA.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I certainly hope so.” He mustered his most charming smile. “My name is Quinten Aspinall. I’m looking for information on my two brothers. I believe they came here about four or five years ago from the Dr. Barnardo’s Homes in London, and I’d like to find out where they are now.”

  Immediately her features hardened. “I’m sorry, sir, but I am not at liberty to give out that type of information.” She shut the leather journal in front of her with a decisive slap.

  Quinn stepped closer to the desk. “I understand there are rules of propriety that must be followed. But surely you can tell immediate family members about their status.” He reached inside his jacket. “I have identification if that helps.”

  The woman rose, her harried gaze darting to the staircase leading to the upper level. “I’m afraid I don’t have the authority—”

  “Then might I speak with the person in charge of this establishment?”

  Her hand fluttered to the high collar of her blouse. She let out a breath and nodded. “One moment, please, and I’ll see if Mr. Hobday has time to speak with you.” She gestured to a bench against the far wall.

  “Thank you.” Quinn bowed slightly and took a seat.

  The woman started up the staircase. Once she was out of sight, Quinn went straight over to the journal on the desk. His heart pumping, he quickly opened the first page. There he found a neatly scripted list of names and dates.

  He flipped the pages, scanning for any entries in 1914 while listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. After hearing Mrs. Chamberlain’s accounts of the dire conditions some children lived in, Quinn wasn’t taking the chance of being denied information on his brothers. Perspiration slicked his palms as he attempted to move quickly through the journal. Finally, a name jumped out at him. Aspinall, Harrison, age 7. Mr. T. Wolfe, Caledon, Ontario.

  Quinn quickly memorized it while continuing to scan. On the next page, he found Aspinall, Cecil, age 11. Mr. A. Simpson, Collingwood, Ontario.

  Mentally repeating the information, he closed the book and made sure it looked the same as the woman had left it, then returned to the bench. He wiped his damp palms on his pant legs and made an effort to slow his breathing, wanting to appear calm and in control when the director appeared.

  At last, footsteps sounded on the staircase, and the woman came into view, followed by a slim gentleman who looked to be about forty. Quinn got to his feet as they approached.

  “This is Mr. Aspinall,” she said to the man before returning to her desk.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Allen.” He came forward, hand extended. “I’m Mr. Hobday, the superintendent of this establishment. Won’t you come into my office where we can speak in private?”

  Quinn followed him down a hall to a large room with long rectangular windows that faced the front street.

  “Please have a seat.” Mr. Hobday gestured to the chairs in front of his desk.

  “Thank you.” He sat and waited until the man took his place, praying for the right words to convince the fellow to give him the information he wanted.

  “I understand you’re looking for your brothers, Mr. Aspinall.” The superintendent folded his hands on the desktop.

  “That’s right. Harrison and Cecil Aspinall. They came over in 1914. My mother became ill and was unable to provide for them. I was away at war and had no idea she’d placed them in Dr. Barnardo’s Homes.” Quinn swallowed the bitterness that arose every time he thought of his mother’s actions. Why hadn’t she told him how dire her circumstances had become? If he’d known, maybe he could have done more to help or even postponed joining the war.

  “Most unfortunate.” Mr. Hobday shook his head. “However, you need to understand that by placing the children in the care of Dr. Barnardo’s organization, your mother relinquished her parental rights. They are now bound by their individual indentures to their employers until the age of eighteen.” He shuffled a stack of papers. “I’ll tell you plainly that the farmers don’t take kindly to any interference with their workers. You’d likely be run off the property with a shotgun if you attempted to see them.”

  Quinn’s hands tightened into fists. Mr. Hobday made it sound like his brothers were prisoners working out their punishment. He could almost picture them in iron shackles, tethered to the barn wall. Quinn fought to regulate his breathing. He could not afford to lose his temper and alienate this man. Despite the information he’d memorized about his brothers’ whereabouts, Quinn might need Mr. Hobday’s help at some point in the future. He’d prefer to have the superintendent as an ally rather than an enemy. “I understand the delicate nature of your business, sir. It must take extraordinary skill to balance the orphans with all the people who wish to obtain their services.”

  The lines on the man’s forehead eased. “Indeed, it is a thankless job at times.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Hobday, is there any sort of follow-up once the children have been placed? To ensure everyone is . . . happy with the arrangement?”

  “Yes, there is.” The man’s shoulders relaxed, and he looked Quinn in the eye for the first time. “We send inspectors out to interview the children and the employers. The inspectors take their job very seriously.”

  “I see. And how often does this occur?”

  “Once a year.”

  “That infrequently? A child could be suffering for a full year before anyone comes to check on them.”

  The man’s frown reappeared. “If a farmer is unhappy with the child, believe me, we hear about it forthwith.”

  “No doubt.” Quinn leaned forward. “But what happens if the child is unhappy, or worse yet, maltreated? What recourse does he have then?” He couldn’t help but think of Mrs. Chamberlain’s sister. What options did Annie have when she found herself in an unbearable situation?

  Mr. Hobday’s mouth pursed with displeasure. “I’m sure you understand we cannot cater to the whims of ungrateful and often unruly children, Mr. Aspinall. Every child is out of sorts at first. But gradually most of them settle in and become good workers.”

  “Most? What about the others?”

  “Some run away or create such havoc that the employer is forced to return them. In those instances, we keep the boy here for an attitude adjustment, a retraining of sorts, and then attempt to place them on a more suitable farm.”

  “Do you keep records of these individuals?”

  “We do.” He shifted his weight on the chair, causing it to creak.

  “Would you mind checking to see if either of my brothers experienced this type of ‘retraining’? It might ease my mind to some degree, without jeopardizing the terms of your confidentiality.”

  He held the man’s annoyed gaze for several seconds before Mr. Hobday inclined his head. “Very well.” He pulled open a bottom desk drawer and withdrew a leather book. Then he put on a set of spectacles and opened it. “You said 1914 was the year of arrival?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  He scanned the pages, running a finger down the inked paper, until he stopped. Carefully he removed his glasses and l
ooked up at Quinn. “It appears Cecil ran away from his first placement. Several times, in fact.”

  Quinn straightened on the chair, his heart racing. This was the first tangible account of one of his siblings. “Does it say why?”

  “Apparently he didn’t like the family he was living with.” The man set his jaw.

  Quinn held back a barrage of questions, knowing Mr. Hobday would not answer them. The situation must have been dire for his brother to run away. “What happened to Cecil then? Did he come back here?” It struck Quinn then that the information he’d memorized earlier might no longer apply since Cecil had been moved.

  Mr. Hobday looked back at the book. “Yes. He stayed here for a month and was then placed on a new farm. The inspector’s report several months later indicated that Cecil was adjusting well to the new location.”

  A measure of tension trickled from Quinn’s tense muscles. That was at least a relief. “But you won’t tell me where he was placed.”

  “Not the exact farm, no.” A long pause ensued. Finally, the superintendent let out a heavy sigh. “All I can say is that he was sent north to a town called Elmvale. But be advised, Mr. Aspinall, any interference with these children will not be tolerated. Do I make myself clear?”

  Quinn rose. “Perfectly.” He pointed to the ledger. “Are there any more entries for either of my brothers?”

  Mr. Hobday replaced his glasses and continued to peruse the listings. “Nothing further for either boy.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your time. And your candor.” Quinn paused. “I’ll keep your advice in mind.” He headed for the door.

  “Mr. Aspinall.”

  “Yes?”

  “Please don’t do anything to jeopardize your brothers’ contracts. I cannot stress how important this is. If your brothers leave before the terms are complete, not only will they forfeit any money owing to them, they could be subject to legal ramifications.”

  Quinn swallowed. “Surely you don’t mean jail?”

  “In some cases, that could be the penalty. More often it involves a hefty fine.”