by Janette Oke
“She’s a wonderful little girl.” Grace cleared her throat, taking on a more serious expression. “Let’s talk about adoption for a moment.”
“Of course!”
“It’s a wonderful thing—to take a child without a home into yours and love her as your own. It’s a beautiful, incredible illustration of what God does for us. The Bible talks about how we’re adopted as sons of God. Blessed heirs in His kingdom. It’s so beautiful.”
Roxie Mooreland sighed and reached for her husband’s hand. Then she nodded back at Grace knowingly.
“It’s also an important life change, both for the new parents and particularly for the child. I’m not married myself, but I wonder if it isn’t a little bit like that. Two parties who love each other and are confident that their lives will be improved if they commit to one another—choosing to be a family together.”
The Moorelands nodded. Roxie leaned a little closer against her husband’s side.
“I suppose, though, that one difference between adoption and marriage is that the child is never given a choice. It might be a little more like an arranged marriage then, where the bride isn’t allowed to meet her new husband until the day of the wedding.”
Mrs. Mooreland’s expression faded a little, confused.
“What my role is, as the guardian of these children—that is, what my sister, Lillian, and I have taken on as our role—is to give each of them a period of ‘courtship’ with their potential families, if you will. To provide opportunities for them to get to know you, and for you to get to know them, so that each can see what the new relationship will be like, to understand the commitment that’s being made.”
Mr. Mooreland rose straighter in his seat. “Now see here. It sounds as if you intend to judge whether or not we’re fit parents. Bucky here knows us. He can vouch for us, if that’s needed at all.”
Grace smiled back evenly, shaking her head. “Not at all, Mr. Mooreland. Let’s try this. Let me tell you a little more about Bryony. Perhaps then you’ll understand.”
The man looked toward Pastor Bukowski and then down at his wife, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm as if it needed protecting.
Lillian watched a shadow cross Grace’s face as her thoughts shifted toward explaining Bryony. But her bright assurance pushed the darkness aside. “Bryony is eight. Did you expect that?”
“No, she’s very small for eight. We thought five or six.”
“It’s not unusual for these children to be small. However, in Bryony’s case, she wasn’t actually orphaned at all.”
Even Lillian gasped audibly.
“What?”
“Where are her parents?”
“We don’t know. You see, Bryony lived in a very poor part of southern England. We’re not even quite sure which village. But from the way she described it, we figured out a general region.”
“Did they disown her? I can’t imagine. She’s just so pretty and sweet.”
Again Grace’s voice tightened a little, though Lillian suspected that none of the others noticed. “Not at all. You see, impoverished children are being gathered in England with a promise of new families—families who are purported to provide a much better life—but sometimes unwelcome things have happened. Sometimes workers who claimed to be well-intentioned have pressed poor families into giving up their children.”
“What? No!”
Eyes wide and horror-struck, Lillian and the others stared at Grace. Somehow she was managing to explain disgraceful cruelty with controlled emotion.
“I’m afraid so. And parents are sometimes convinced that it would actually be better for their children to be sent away than to remain with their families in the slums where they live—often through a great deal of coercion, or even misinformation about what they’re actually agreeing to and signing. Of course, many can’t read. So it’s relatively easy to fool them. They might be told, for instance, that the arrangement is temporary, only to discover later that their children have actually been sent overseas by ship—to British holdings around the world. And some, of course, to Canada.”
Mr. Mooreland shook his head in disbelief. “How can you know this? Are they taking the word of the children?”
“No, Mr. Mooreland. It’s been investigated and documented by other workers along the way. Clearly, this is an abuse of a system intended as benevolent charity. But, it seems that whenever we set up a human system at all, abuses will occur. And the larger the system, the more individuals involved, the more advantages are contrived by abusing it.”
“But this little girl, Bryony? Was she . . . ? How could a mother . . . ?” Mrs. Mooreland was unable to finish her questions.
“There’s little paperwork with Bryony at all. We discovered that her documents were among those forged by a Canadian couple in the East, who were known to work with others in the area around London. She and a number of children were taken from their crowded homes and sent off to Canada. Evidently someone discovered a way to make a profit by effectively ‘selling’ the children. You see, the Canadian government receives money for each child accepted from England. It’s my belief that as soon as these children were tied in any way to money changing hands, the system was corrupted. It was inevitable.” Grace paused. “Bryony was stolen from her home while her parents were away. That’s what her paperwork reveals, and I’m afraid that’s supported by the few things she’s been able to tell me about her past life.”
A crash sounded from above them. Lillian rose from the piano bench and slipped through the parlor doors, heading upstairs. The discussion was more than she was able to absorb. She needed time to process what she’d just heard. She needed to be away from the couple who had seen Bryony merely as a pretty child—a doll fashioned to meet their own needs. She felt a desire even to escape from the pastor who was so confident to stand beside them in their gracious offer—before they’d all learned the truth. There’s no limit to the pain these children have known. God above, there’s just no limit to the evil that’s been done to them!
Stretched out on the bed in the fading light, Lillian heard a soft knock at her door. Her tears long spent, she was ready to face conversation again. She swung her legs off the edge of the bed so she could take a seated position, leaving room for Grace to sit down if she chose.
“They left,” Grace said. “We talked for quite a while, but they’ve gone now. I checked the kids—they’re all asleep. We lost out on our first planned devotional time. I was looking forward to it. Thanks for tucking everyone in. Sorry you had to do it alone.”
“Are they still hoping to adopt her?”
Grace nodded. Her answer came gently. “They still want to pursue it. But they understand at this point something of what she’s up against—the complexity of her little world.”
“What do you think of them?”
“I think they’re a rather hopeful match. Mrs. Mooreland is soft-spoken and seems kind. I’m not as sure about her husband, but it might be that he’s more protective than controlling. He might be a very good father. At least, Bucky seems to think so.” She winked at Lillian.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Grace? I didn’t know any of that.”
Grace sank down to sit on the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh. “There’s so much I haven’t told you. It would have taken hours to explain each of their stories, each miserable tale. But why didn’t I? Maybe I was trying to spare your feelings, maybe we’ve been too busy to have had such a long conversation, or maybe I didn’t have it in me to repeat it all out loud again. Probably a little of each.” She flopped back onto the bed, feet still resting on the floor.
Lillian shuddered. “And the others? Are their stories just as dreadful?”
A long pause. “Not all the Home Children have been so betrayed by those who should have helped them. But . . .” Grace took several weighty breaths. “But the ones who come to us need the most help because the system has failed them most. And even caring for them here—it’s not enough. We call it a home, but it’s n
ever really home. It’s just temporary. Yet it’s such a big responsibility. Sometimes I worry that I’m in way over my head—that I’m not going to do any better than anyone else to really help them.”
Lillian fell back beside her, staring up at the ceiling, the house entirely still. For a long time, there was only the sound of their breathing in the deepening darkness. At last Lillian voiced what she was certain they were both thinking. “But if we don’t try, then who?”
CHAPTER 9
School
Soft sounds of a stirring world woke Lemuel early on Monday morning. He knew it was too soon to rise, but he did so anyway—quietly, so that he wouldn’t awaken anyone else. He’d said nothing; however, this was the day he’d been waiting for since coming to the house last week—had been somewhat worried he’d be excluded from because of his age. In fact, he’d come to the conclusion that it was easily the best part of having a place again. It was time to enroll in school. Education was one thing he could never lose—that could never be taken back again.
He dressed carefully. He’d cut out one sleeve from a white cotton undershirt in order to make the armhole large enough to slide his cast through. Then, with an exaggerated shrug, he stretched the rest of the garment over his head. Ordinary shirts had been impossible to put on. But among the clothes Miss Grace had provided from the assortment at the children’s home, he’d found a couple loose sweaters that could be pulled over the heavy plaster covering his arm. Miss Grace had considered them each worthy of the “school clothes” designation. Lastly, he slipped the muslin sling into position and was ready to go.
He went first to the kitchen to fill his bottle with milk, buttered a thick slice of bread, and headed out the back door toward the barn, moving silently and carrying an oil lantern for light. It wasn’t difficult to find the kitten. She’d already learned to expect his morning visit. He filled the chipped saucer beside her with a little of his milk and sat down cross-legged so she could crawl around on his lap and rub her dappled fur against his sweater. The children had named her Miss Puss, but Lemuel secretly called her Ember instead, for the flecks of black and white and orange in her fur. Having his own name helped him pretend she was his very own. He missed Rufus. And a kitten was almost as good as a dog.
He still wasn’t sure how long he’d choose to remain with Miss Grace and Miss Lillian. That was the decision that had most consumed his thoughts recently. Would he stay once his arm had healed? It still felt relatively comfortable to be there. He found it easier to go unnoticed with so much activity surrounding him. And he didn’t mind being useful, helping to earn his keep by looking out for those younger than he was. So he’d concluded that his best choice would be to remain in the big house for as long as they’d allow him to go to school.
Lemuel had figured it out as he lay awake in the early mornings, staring up at the ceiling above his bed while the house was still. School meant a better life. It meant respect. It meant a future with more possibilities—more freedom. And deep inside he quietly nursed an idea he hardly dared admit, even in the privacy of his solitary pondering. It would be exciting to be a doctor. To take something broken and painful, like my poor arm, and make it work again. What other job could be better than that?
When he saw Miss Grace’s second-floor window light up, he knew it was time to return to the house. Scratching his fingertips into the kitten’s loose skin one more time and emptying what remained of his milk into her dish, he headed for the porch, adding a heavy bucket filled with coal to the items he carried. It was time to stir up the fire in the cook stove in order for it to be ready when needed for preparing breakfast.
But this wasn’t an ordinary morning. And his heart raced a little as he fell into his role of serving without bothering to wait for the other boys to rise and join him. He hauled water from the pump so the children could wash up for breakfast. He emptied the ash bucket onto the pile beside the garden and tossed the contents of the kitchen slop pail into the shallow pit behind the barn, stopping momentarily to cuddle Ember again. He walked down the back hill to where the icehouse hunched in its cool shelter beneath the trees. It was dark and damp there, but Lemuel dug a new block of ice from under the coal slack, pinched it tightly in the tongs, and hefted it all the way back to the house. He rinsed it and loaded it in the lower compartment inside the kitchen’s icebox. Then he banked the fire so it would sustain hot coals until they were needed later. Miss Lillian and Miss Grace aren’t very skilled with a fire.
Finally he stood at the porch sink and tried to remove the stains of ash and coal dust from his hands at the washbasin. The evidence of everyday labor never came off entirely. But other boys’ hands would tell the same story. All the while he speculated if the new school would be much like the one he’d attended far out on the prairie. Would it be larger? Would there be more than one teacher? Would his teacher be as kind?
The three boys made a tidy row waiting outdoors on the front porch while the girls finished preparing. George folded his wool cap in half and shoved it inside his jacket, but Harrison strutted around the yard as if the accessory made him feel even more like a gentleman.
As they waited together, Lemuel thought about the farmer’s wife again. She’d be pleased that he was back in school today. And he’d be glad to use her name when he registered. If only he could somehow reclaim Stein as well—if he could be Lemuel Stein-Andrews. But it was enough to acknowledge the kind woman with a shared surname, and still to honor his papa and mum by using his full given name of Lemuel. He made up his mind never to allow anyone to reduce him to being “Lem” again. He knew it was Miss Grace who’d given his identity back. Did she somehow know why it’s so important to me? Maybe.
He hurried along behind as their small group made their way toward the center of town, where the school was located. Next, he waited impatiently with the other children on a row of office chairs as Miss Grace and Miss Lillian met with the principal. Lemuel could feel his heart pounding. On the outside he forced a controlled calm. What would happen next?
At last the door opened and the familiar women reappeared with a strange man.
“Welcome, children.” The principal smiled down at them. He was tall and dark and had a tidy black beard just beginning to gray. He could have easily been very stern if it weren’t for the playful sparkle lighting up his eyes and the quickness of his smile. “We’re glad to have you join our school. I’m Mr. Thompson.” His eyes moved from one child to the next, pausing for an extra second on Harrison. They seemed to assess one another in an instant. “We’ve assigned you to your classes. Would you please gather your things and follow me?” In his hand he held a sheet of paper with a short list printed on it.
Each child carried a sack with a few of the most necessary school supplies. They had also packed their sandwiches and apples for lunch. Dangling their bags of provisions, they marched along together down a quiet hallway. Lemuel noticed an open doorway as they passed, observing a teacher inside already instructing her students.
“This is our primary grades classroom.” Mr. Thompson rapped at the door and waited for an answer. “Miss Campbell, I have a new student for you.”
“Oh, that’s very nice. Hello, children. My, what a large family you are!”
Stepping near enough for confidentiality, Mr. Thompson began to explain to Miss Campbell the details of her new pupil. Lemuel watched a series of expressions sweep over the young woman’s eyes in waves, though her smile remained fixed and empty.
“All right, then,” she finally said. “Welcome, Bryony. We’re so pleased you’ve come to join us. And that is such a darling name.”
Bryony took a step farther away, hiding even more of her small frame behind Miss Grace’s skirts, the familiar lamb crushed against her side.
“It’s all right, sweetie. Your friend is coming along with you today.”
Round green eyes peered upward in surprise.
Miss Grace stooped low. “I get to sit at the back with you. So that we can watch what ha
ppens in your classroom. Let’s go in together, does that sound good?”
The girl’s face disappeared against Miss Grace’s shoulder. Undaunted, the woman rose and scooted Bryony inside as she held tightly against the comforting skirts, still refusing to even look around.
Stopping at the next door, Mr. Thompson knocked again.
“Mrs. Murphy, this is Hazel Whitaker. She’s joining your class today at the fourth-grade level.”
Hazel stepped confidently up to the doorway. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Murphy.”
“If you’ll see Hazel seated and then come back, please, I have a second student to introduce to you.”
They waited together for the teacher’s return, and Mr. Thompson spoke to Harrison sternly. “Son, this is your classroom too. I want you to know that Mrs. Murphy is one of our most experienced teachers. She’s fair but strict.” He laid a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Now, Harrison, I trust you’ll be a model student, won’t you?”
“’Course, sir.” The boy grinned, unyielding.
“Good. I’ll be pleased to watch as you excel here. And you know where my office is located should we need to talk again.”
“Yes, sir. I’d like that, sir.”
“Hmm.”
His teacher reappeared and the boy extended his hand. Lemuel had no doubt what he would say to her. “Pleased ta meet ya, Mrs. Murphy. My name is ’Arrison Boyd. But not ’Arry, if ya don’t mind.”
The door closed. Lemuel could see that George was growing visibly nervous. All bluster and bravado while safe among those he knew, clearly now he was losing his nerve. When his door opened to reveal a barrel-chested man with thick arms and piercing brown eyes, George dropped his gaze to the floor.
“Mr. Jensen, this is George Whitaker. I’m told he’s a good student and well prepared for your classroom. George, you’ll be here with other children in grades six to eight.”