by Janette Oke
Lillian waited, pinching the telegram tighter.
Grace managed a smile. “You’re so terribly dear to me. But, sweet sister, you’re supposed to leave for Wales soon—to be with your dad. You said he’s anxious for you to come. He’s . . .”
Lillian opened the telegram and spread it out in front of Grace. “I sent him a message. My words were ‘Moving to Brookfield with Grace? Letter follows.’ And this was his reply. Please read it, Grace—before you make up your mind.”
She lifted the slip of paper, eyes still on Lillian. “But he’ll be gone for a whole year. You can’t give up your plans. You’ll miss out on such a wonderful chance to travel.”
“Please read it.”
Grace’s eyes dropped to the paper.
TRUST YOUR DECISION—STOP—LOVE YOU BOTH—STOP
When she lifted her eyes again, there were tears.
“He loves you, Grace. He truly does, even if he doesn’t know you yet. And I know that he means he supports us—wants to share his home in order to help us. And Mother, oh, Grace, I wish you could have met my mother—my second mother. She had such a tender heart. She would’ve done this while hardly pausing to consider the obstacles, just because it’s the right thing to do. She’d have found a way. Let’s find a way—you and me.”
Grace bit her lip. Her eyes reflected a series of emotions like ripples crossing a pond. Then she nodded her head slowly. “Yes. Let’s try.”
Lemuel had been a part of the livery for just over a month when the accident occurred. He was working hurriedly in the cool of the morning, totally unaware that the owner had changed the black to a different stall. He stepped inside and, without warning, felt himself hammered off his feet, thrown into the gutter at the doorway. Fortunately, the pail of chop he’d been carrying took the brunt of the kick, but Lemuel had landed hard on his left elbow. He knew from the pain that something wasn’t right, but he latched the gate of the stall quickly, anguish shooting through his body. Then with one hand he brushed off as much dirt as he could, wondering silently how and where he’d ever be able to wash the filth from his clothes, and then went about his tasks. There was no denying that the arm was not willing to cooperate. The pain flashed from his wrist to his shoulder whenever he attempted to move it. He tried to tuck it up against his side, but soon nausea was making it hard to think at all. In spite of the searing pain, he attempted to shovel with his good right hand. The work went awkwardly and slowly.
At last the owner appeared. “You ain’t done yet? Thought you’d have everything cleaned up by now and here the gutter ain’t even cleared. You’re usually—” He stopped. “What happened?”
“The black” was all that Lemuel could manage to answer.
“The black? Kick ya?”
Lemuel could only respond with a nod. His head was spinning and his stomach felt about to revolt.
“Forgot to warn ya. Thought you’d notice he’d been moved. Well, let’s see what damage was done.”
He pushed rather than walked Lemuel to the patch of bright light coming in from the open door. “Where?”
Lemuel indicated his left arm. The man took it roughly in both his hands and began to twist it one way and then the other. The boy went down, landing in a heap at the man’s feet.
At this the man swore and reached for a water bucket that sat beside the door. Without further word, he sloshed the tepid water over Lemuel’s face and reached down to shake him by the shoulder. “Come off it, kid,” he hissed. “’Twasn’t nothing but a kick. Been kicked a dozen times and I’m still standing.”
Lemuel fought to gain his senses, but even to move brought an increased flood of pain.
“Well,” said the man, “you ain’t gonna be no good to me in this condition. Don’t bother showing up for work tomorrow.” He scowled and turned, walked away, leaving Lemuel lying amid the scattered straw on the livery floor.
Lemuel couldn’t recall how he managed to get back to the shelter of his shed and to his blanket bed in the back-corner darkness. It was after a troubled and painful sleep that he awoke the next morning to the sound of rain on the roof. He was cold—and hungry. The injured arm was now stiff and refusing to move. He tried to lift himself from his blanket, but the pain stopped him. He gave up and returned once again to his pitiable bed, his throbbing arm protected across his chest. He finally slept again, but even the sleep brought no comfort. It was then that the dream came back—the recurring fears of searching and fleeing in the darkness. Awake again, he tried to comprehend the nightmare of his reality. His arm was damaged badly and he’d be unable to work at the stables. There’d no longer be a morning meal and a small coin at the end of the day for his trip to the baker.
Lillian was quickly aware of how much Grace’s reputation influenced the support they received as they began working out their plan. The staff at Brayton House was quick to come on board simply because they trusted Grace. Months before, they’d developed a plan where Grace worked underneath the umbrella of their ministry in order to shield her from those who might object. Though, Lillian thought secretly, it probably doesn’t hurt that they’re so overwhelmed by their own load too.
The community around Grace rallied, taking up a collection, offering help to organize the journey. The contents of her rental home were sold or plans were made to return items to the people who had donated them. The children’s home promised to continue the stipend they’d been giving Grace for each child under her care. Altogether, there’d be enough funds that, with careful spending, they could manage from September to Christmas without dipping too much into Father’s account, particularly since Lillian no longer needed to lease a room—and even though Grace was giving up her job. Each person Lillian observed repeated a similar sentiment. “We’ll miss you, Grace. But we know you’ll be blessed because you’re following God.”
A few of the comments alarmed Lillian. One of the staff at the orphanage said that he hoped the society wouldn’t hear of two women working on their own. To which a second replied, “It’s not as if that gang is paying attention anyway. Honestly, I wish they would. They barely ever show up to do their post-placement reviews, just to check on the kids they’ve already sent out. They’re supposed to visit them all once a year, make sure they’re being cared for well. It’s a crime—that’s what it is!”
Once Grace had agreed to the venture, she was all energy and hope in moving them forward. At last the plans were certain enough to tell the children. Grace worried, “I hope they take this news well. They’ve so recently begun a new year of school here. They’ve made some friends. They have a routine. Up until now their lives have been filled with unexpected change. I wanted to help them feel stable. Now it’s almost like working backward before we begin. But I am convinced this is for the best.” She prayed, asking that God would surround the small hearts with protection—would help them trust the decision—would help them feel confident, comforted, during the move.
Sitting together with Lillian on their modest sofa, Grace gathered the children around her and announced a new adventure. Most of the little group seemed rather excited at the prospect of trading the city world for a small town, particularly as they listened to Grace describe what Lillian had told her about it. Only little Bryony resisted. Refusing comfort from anyone other than Grace, she became a ghost child, hiding herself away as much as possible, silent and sullen.
“We need to be so patient with her,” Grace advised quietly. “She’s struggling with it all. And I can’t even get her to talk with me about her feelings anymore. I’m sure this is the right thing to do, but I’m so concerned about her little heart being damaged further.”
“I’ll pray,” Lillian promised, wondering if her prayers would matter at all compared to Grace’s own.
Rarely rising at all while three days passed, Lemuel took up his thinking—sorting. His mind slowed, his brain grew foggier with hunger. Yet he knew he had to work through his situation. He was alone. In this small city. Unlike in London, he’d seen no oth
er children dwelling in the streets. On one hand, that meant that he didn’t have as much competition when it came to a food supply. On the other hand, his situation meant that he had no companions to share his circumstances and lend their support. He hated the feeling of being entirely alone.
“Think,” he told himself. “You need to find a way to survive.”
He still had the reference letter—that fact brought a small measure of hope. But his arm was damaged, maybe broken. How could he work for food with just one arm? He’d had nothing to eat for the last two days and no prospects of finding anything today. He couldn’t steal. That would dishonor the woman. She’d been the only kindness in his world since he’d lost his own mother. The man had demanded that he never bring her shame. He might starve—but he would not steal. Yet, he had only the one blanket, and he knew the nights would soon be getting even colder. He needed something more for warmth or he’d perish. His shelter was well hidden and, unless someone purchased the empty store, there was a good chance his hiding place wouldn’t be discovered. But even a water supply was uncertain. So how . . . ?
The sound of women’s voices cut through his thoughts. He’d never known of ladies to be in the alley before. What were they doing? Had someone spotted him? He wrapped the blanket closer and held his breath.
“Are you sure they said this alley?”
“I’m sure. He pointed it out and said this is where the boy’s been seen coming and going. They think he found shelter here, but really, I see nothing that would do.”
“They could be wrong.”
“The shopkeeper seemed so certain.”
“When was he spotted last?”
“Monday evening. The woman at the bakery said he was walking strangely—like he was sick or hurt or something.”
“And they haven’t seen him since then?”
“No. And he didn’t stop to spend his day’s earnings on one of her loaves for the last three nights either. That troubled her. He always stopped and purchased something.”
They’re looking for me! Lemuel was sure of it now. He was the boy who stopped each day at the bakery to make his purchase before settling in for the night.
The voices neared his shelter. “Do you suppose if we called—?”
“It might frighten him, Lillian.”
“Surely he wouldn’t think that we’d do him any harm. What was his name again?”
“Lem. Just Lem. That’s what he told the lady at the bakery.”
“Maybe we should call.”
“They said he’s very timid. Hardly speaks. I’d hate to frighten him.”
“But if he knows we’re here to help him, to give him a home, he might—”
“Maybe.”
Lemuel stirred in his blanket. Had he heard correctly? Dare he believe that they were really here to do him good? Should he speak to reveal his presence? What if they left before he could find out if they really meant what they were saying?
Still, fear kept him frozen to the spot.
“You don’t suppose this old shed could be—?”
Someone was pulling open the door, had stepped inside, was stirring through the battered old lawn furnishings and the piles of rubble.
“Careful, Grace. You have no idea what might be under . . .”
“Lem? Lem,” a soft voice called, “are you here?”
He couldn’t trust his parched tongue to answer, but he knew he must respond. Clutching his blanket close about him, he began to crawl forward on his knees and one good arm toward the sound. He heard the gasp as he rounded the old barrels. There they stood. Two proper young ladies with wide, sympathetic eyes. For a moment they all stared at one another, then one of the women stepped forward and held out a hand.
“You’re hurt.” Her eyes were large with the pain she saw he was feeling. “Oh, Lem—I’m so glad we found you. We’ve come to take you home.”
CHAPTER 7
Adjustments
They took the boy back to Grace’s small home. He seemed dumbstruck at what was occurring. Lillian watched, aghast, as he insisted with a raspy voice that they bring his case, the empty milk bottle, and the tattered blanket. His few possessions seemed of great concern to the boy. Grace used his thin covering to wrap his arm against his body carefully, allowing the excess to drape around his shoulders for warmth. Still he shivered in the bright, sunlit morning. As she worked she assured him that he could keep all of his belongings with him. She asked few questions of him, merely repeating gently that he was no longer alone—that now he’d be cared for.
The words appeared to bring no comfort. Lem volunteered no information. He obeyed each direction given but stared silently out the window of the car they’d hired. His jaw was clenched hard, his expression stern.
When they arrived at the house, Grace sent George immediately for the doctor while she helped the boy to the kitchen table. Three little faces clustered at the doorway. These he seemed to acknowledge in a silent exchange of glances. Only Harrison approached the table. “Where ya from, lad?”
They studied each other for a moment. Lem answered quietly, “London. You?”
“Yeah, me too. ’Ow old are ya?”
“Fourteen.”
“I’m ten. My name’s ’Arrison. But not ’Arry, not never.” He nodded toward the blanket-turned-sling. “Pains ya, does it?”
No response.
“Miss Grace, she’ll fix ya up proper.” The younger boy turned to retreat but added as an afterthought, “What’s yer name?”
“Lemuel.” A shake of his head and a frown. “I mean Lem.”
Lillian set a bowl of soup on the table in front of him. Still he refused to meet her gaze, though he did whisper, “Thank you, ma’am.”
She walked back to where Grace was waiting beside the stove. Grace moved toward him next, a glass of milk and a slice of bread in her hands. “There’s more if you’d like it, Lemuel.”
His eyes lifted briefly with surprise, then fell to the bowl before him.
To Lillian, Grace whispered with quiet confidence, “We’ll give him a little space and time. He’s in shock. But I hope he’ll come around.”
The encounter was an added complication to an already hectic week. As they were rushing to prepare their little entourage for a move across the prairie, one of Grace’s peers from the restaurant had disclosed a rumor that a boy had been seen alone on the south side of the city. There was much discussion about him at the children’s home, even a search party sent out. But they’d discovered nothing. As a last effort, Grace and Lillian had set out together. Speaking with local business owners, they had happened upon the chatty woman at the bakery.
Their discussion about including Lemuel in their plans was surprisingly brief.
Lillian had shaken her head. “But we don’t know anything about him, Grace.”
“They simply don’t have room for him at the home. They’d have to ship him east or place him with any old family at all, just to solve their own dilemma. We can’t let that happen. And the timing—it must be God’s.”
Lillian had readily surrendered. Having made so many difficult choices, it had become easier for her to demonstrate courage—almost like being carried along by a freight train rolling forward with the force of its great weight, already in motion, unstoppable. “Fine then. He comes along.”
“If he chooses,” Grace had added. “He’s older. He’ll have to make up his own mind.”
“How are you feeling today?”
Grace had waited until past noon to wake the sleeping boy. It seemed his body was in need of extra rest. “I have an egg sandwich for you for lunch. I’m afraid you missed breakfast. There’s milk to drink and some pickles.” She smiled as she placed a tray beside him on the bed. Lillian stood in the doorway observing, hesitant to duck inside the small boys’ bedroom tucked away under the low attic rafters. What on earth will we say to him?
Lemuel took in his surroundings slowly. “Where am I?”
“My name is Grace Bennett. I know yo
u’re feeling strange. The doctor gave you medicine when he set your arm yesterday. It’s making you feel groggy, but that should pass soon. If you’re in too much pain now, I can give you something more.”
The boy looked away. He lifted his good hand to test the new plaster cast, thumped it with his knuckles, felt up and down it with his fingertips.
“Do you remember that we brought you to a house? Do you remember seeing the doctor?”
He shook his head in answer slowly, as if his head felt thick and cumbersome. Then he glanced again at the cast on his arm. “Is it broken?”
“Yes, at the elbow. What happened, son? Did you land on it wrong?”
“The livery. I was working at the livery. The black kicked me and I fell back on it.”
Grace leaned a little closer. “I’m sorry. I’m sure it still hurts. Would you like to sit up a little?”
He nodded and she helped him rise to a sitting position. The movement seemed to clear his head a little. Looking down at the clean nightshirt he was wearing, he pulled the sheets higher uneasily.
“Now I want you to take your time to answer me. Think carefully first. Are you hurt anywhere else, Lemuel?”
He was visibly surprised to hear his full name again. Lillian watched as he seemed to do a mental check. “I don’t think so. I was carryin’ a bucket. That’s what he kicked.”
“I’m glad. It could have been so much worse.” Grace smiled warmly. “Are you hungry?”
Swallowing hard, he muttered, “Yes.”
She used a pillow across his lap to bring his tray close enough for him to eat.
“Don’t eat quickly. Give your stomach a chance to adjust. If it’s been a while, then . . .” She left the warning unfinished. If he’d been without food before, he’d understand. And then she motioned to where Lillian was still standing quietly. “This is Lillian Walsh, Lemuel. She’s my sister.”
