by Janette Oke
“I s’pose. That’s what my pa said he’d do.”
“Poor kids! I like George. He’s real funny.”
Lemuel’s head was spinning. Was it true? Did Miss Lillian’s father know nothing of their stay? Would they all be sent away once he returned home? And when was he expected, anyway? Lemuel had always wondered how Miss Lillian could own such a large house and live in it alone. Now that he knew it didn’t even belong to her, it all made sense. He felt his stomach go sour.
All the plans he’d made to work hard to help Miss Lillian so she’d allow him to stay—to finish high school—all of it was in jeopardy now. Every time! Every single time I start to hope that things will work out, it all just falls apart. Well, this time he wouldn’t be caught off guard. This time Lemuel was determined to find a way to be ready. He’d finish his schooling here, no matter what he had to do to make it happen.
And then he thought about the others. Well, maybe Bryony will get to live with the Moorelands. They seem nice enough. But what about the others? If they don’t get families, maybe I can get a job and help them. He knew it was foolishness, utter nonsense to even dream of being able to provide for them all—why had Miss Lillian and Miss Grace added even more?—but it was far easier to give himself over to wishing than to contemplate the consequences if the adults responsible for them failed again.
The long afternoon exhausted, Lillian and Grace loaded their charges once more into the back of Otto’s wagon and headed for home. Everyone seemed too spent for Saturday evening baths, but Miss Tilly would hear none of their complaints. She heated the water and sent them to the wooden tub one at a time, insisting that “cleanliness is next to godliness.”
Lillian waited for a private moment when she could divert Grace into the parlor. “I wanted to tell you something wonderful. Mr. Thompson wants to hire Lemuel and Harrison to work at his farm.”
“Why, that’s—” Grace began to answer, but Lillian hurried on.
“That’s not all.” Her voice was a potent whisper. “The Thompsons are considering adopting them. Both of them!”
“What?”
“But we can’t tell. They don’t know for sure yet. Oh pray, Grace! Pray that they’ll take them. It would be perfect.”
“I’ll pray for God’s will, whatever that is. But I agree. I can’t imagine anyone better.” They began toward the door, but Grace stretched a hand to Lillian’s sleeve and tugged her backward again. “Oh, did you see the Moorelands? They were so natural with Bryony. The boys followed her around, watching over her. She seems quite taken with them. And I spoke at length with Mr. Mooreland. He seems much more even-tempered than we worried at first. I think that’s a real possibility too.”
“Oh, thank God.”
Tucking the girls in that night, Lillian felt an unexpected sadness. She would miss Bryony, had become completely attached to her. If just the thought of one of the children moving to a new family brought such melancholy, she wondered how much it would hurt to see them go, one by one. That idea hadn’t occurred to Lillian before—a cost she hadn’t calculated.
With a heavy heart, she slipped her silky nightgown over her head and let it fall in gentle folds about her slim figure. I think I’ve lost a few pounds, she noted. And then with a flash of memory her mind drew up a picture of Mother’s form as it wasted away. She shuddered. I must take care of myself. What would Mother say if she saw me now? Lillian went through the slow ritual of hair-brushing and facial care she’d neglected. At last she retreated to Mother’s side of the bed and stretched out her tired body.
She was just feeling relaxed enough for sleep to claim her when she heard a quiet sound that might have been a knock. Her head rose in time to see her door opening slowly. Strange. She hadn’t heard a request to enter. But it was Grace who tiptoed toward her bed.
“Sis,” came a soft whisper. “Sis, are you awake?”
Lillian propped herself up on an elbow. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no,” said an excited voice. “It’s—it’s very right. I just remembered something.”
“What?”
“That Roxie Mooreland plays the piano.”
Lillian shook her head. Was she dreaming? Why would Grace come to her room after retiring to talk about Roxie Mooreland?
“So . . . ?” she said sleepily.
“Bryony. Don’t you see? She’ll be able to teach Bryony.”
Despite her own fatigue, the thought brought a smile to Lillian’s face. “That’s nice. Does she have her own piano?”
“Yes. Yes, she does. Betsy Bukowski said she gives lessons to some of the church kids. God is so good,” Grace enthused. “The Moorelands are the perfect couple. We couldn’t have picked any better.”
“That’s wonderful. Bryony will be thrilled.”
“Sorry if I woke you,” Grace apologized. “I just couldn’t wait to tell you. Go back to sleep.”
As Lillian listened to the soft footsteps on the carpet and the close of the door, she wondered how easy it would be to be able to claim sleep. Their little Bryony would have her music. She made up her mind to spend some extra moments with her, increasing the few lessons they’d been able to share. She just wasn’t sure how she’d find time.
CHAPTER 15
Hope Valley
On Monday morning, the children were fed and dressed and bundled into coats for the walk to school. Grace would go along on this morning. She’d volunteered to help with the fall recital plans. Roxie Mooreland planned to partner with her. And, though it should have been a busy laundry day of hauling and heating buckets of water, Lillian and Miss Tilly prepared for a long car ride to the nearby community of Hope Valley, where the older woman would visit with some of her prior neighbors. Miss Tilly had been pressing the girls to make a trip with her, certain that the folk she knew there would be happy to provide support and assistance in any way they could.
Lillian had heard many stories about the nearby communities within the mountain valleys, most of them from Miss Tilly herself. Hope Valley was one of the small towns that shared Dr. Shepherd’s time. The postmaster from Brookfield made regular deliveries there, and the Mounted Police officers served this larger region. Even Pastor Bukowski made fairly frequent trips to and from the area, and it was Bucky with whom the ladies would be riding.
Setting a loaf of oatmeal bread and a tea cake in the center of a white cloth, Miss Tilly drew up the corners and tied them carefully. “My friend Gerta’s ailin’. Had a bad spill and now she can’t walk good. Promised I’d stop in ta see her.”
“How long did you live there, Miss Tilly?”
“Oh, land sakes! Who can remember? But most’a my married life.” With a stick she kept in the kitchen for just such a moment, she poked at a basket sitting on the top of the hutch until it tumbled down into her hand, as if it were the most natural thing to do. Without a pause she continued, “My Joe, he was a miner. Worked ’round Lethbridge as a young man, but we moved away chasin’ better jobs hereabouts and farther west. Not complainin’, mind you. I like it ’round here—like the views. Nary did earn more’n we did afore, but there’s other recompenses, eh?”
“When did you lose him?” The question sounded harsh as soon as Lillian had given it voice.
Miss Tilly seemed unruffled. Loading the basket with some paraffin wax, a jar of red currant jelly, and several balls of scrap yarn, she chatted on. “Lost him in the terrible accident. Lost plenty’a good men that day.” She shook her head and sighed. “Changed us, it did. Changed the whole town. Weren’t the only minin’ collapse, not by a furlong, but t’was the worst, ta be certain.”
“That’s dreadful! I’m so sorry. I had no idea mining was so dangerous. What did you do?”
“Well, we carried on. The womenfolk dug in hard and jest carried on. Weren’t so hard fer me as fer most—all my young’uns was raised. Only my Kenny and his new little wife was there then. But he packed her right up and moved her away—said he weren’t gonna let the same happen ta her.”
“Um-hmm. One at a time, all of ’em sprouted their wings and flew. ’Preciate yer concern but ain’t it jest life? ’Cause we all got our burdens, eh? ’Tis hard for a woman. Maybe more fer a man? Only the good Lord knows fer sure.”
Lillian considered her previous thoughts regarding women’s roles. She’d wished for independence. Perhaps she’d been wrong. Perhaps it truly was so hard to keep a family together that it took two adults each working tirelessly. And yet, Father and Mother had been blessed with plenty—at least, for many years.
“Miss Tilly,” she began cautiously, “what do you think about a woman having a job—about her supporting herself? Some of the city girls I’ve seen have taken up jobs.”
A wry smile. “An’ nary marryin’?”
“Well . . . maybe, I don’t know.”
She shrugged and smiled a sly little grin. “Don’t think that’ll be yer lot, Miss Lillian. Think ya might not need to ponder such a fate.”
Blushing, Lillian turned away and instead fussed over a stack of towels. “It’s not that I don’t intend to marry. It’s just that I wondered about the two of us—about Grace and me—working with the children, being responsible for them. It’s almost a real job the way that Grace cares for orphans, at least. And yet, she doesn’t get paid for it—or even respected the way a man would be.”
“Oh, I see, I see. Well, that’s hard ta figure, and I won’t deny it. Sometimes we rise up to do a man’s work on account’a there bein’ no one else ta do it. God knows it. He blesses it. I seen that, so I’m sure. But sometimes a bright little gal will rise up ta throw off her shackles, so ta speak. In her heart there’s a rebel not wantin’ ta be led. God knows that too. Seems ta me, we best ask why—is it servin’ or rebellin’ ya want most? ’Cause if ya wanna be blessed, yer heart’s the key.”
The bugling of a car horn sounded in the yard. Lillian moved the towels aside. “Thank you, Miss Tilly. You’ve given me much to consider.”
The woman chuckled and hurried about her preparations. Lillian heard her mutter softly, “Don’t think either of ya gonna think on it fer long. I saw them young men at the picnic. Flies to honey, that’s all I have to say.”
Pastor Bukowski appeared at the kitchen door, walked boldly inside. “Good mornin’! Thought ya might want help carryin’ out.”
“Why, yes, I do. Grab that basket, can ya, Bucky? And that crate’ll go too.”
Lillian pulled her long wool coat over her dress. Miss Tilly had advised that she wear her boots rather than shoes to where they were going.
“Yer use ta yer town. This place ain’t quite the same kinda built up. Not much gravel on them roads yet ’round Hope Valley. And it can get powerful muddy.”
They say “strange roads are long.” Lillian was inclined to believe the axiom as they journeyed deeper into the foothills and toward the mountains around Hope Valley. It seemed they’d been on the road a long time. She cast her glance out the car’s side window toward the sky. In truth, the sun hadn’t moved that far across the expanse above them. It was just that the travel was tedious.
Lillian settled back into her seat and decided to enjoy every mile, every minute, of this unexpected journey. Miss Tilly had made Hope Valley sound like a fairy-tale place. Would it really measure up? Lillian admitted that she had her doubts—but she wouldn’t share those feelings with the woman who sat beside her. She turned her eyes back to the meandering river in the valley just below them. Certainly it was lovely. So tranquil, so clear. It reflected the sky above with wavering images of slowly drifting clouds, as peaceful as the river itself. And if one looked closely, Lillian was sure the rocks on the river bottom could be counted through the pristine water.
“Gettin’ close,” said Miss Tilly beside her, and Lillian heard the excitement that couldn’t be hidden. “Right ’round thet next bend up there. I can almost smell the chimney smoke from here.”
Lillian smelled no chimney smoke. In fact, she took another deep breath of the clear mountain air. She was almost sorry that their journey was about to end.
Miss Tilly was right. As they pulled around the bend, the small town came into view. There it was—the little building, both church and schoolhouse, that Miss Tilly had spoken of with such affection, the long row of houses, the businesses lining the main street of the small town.
The arriving vehicle seemed to draw townsfolk to the street. Lillian saw faces appear in doorways, curtains pull back in windows, and small children turn from their play to watch the approaching strangers.
Even before they could disembark, there were calls of greeting. Lillian cast a glance toward her traveling companion and saw the broad smile that transformed the woman’s face. She was being welcomed home. Miss Tilly stepped to the ground, brushing at her skirts as though removing the dust of her previous days. She was welcomed by outstretched arms and passed from one neighbor to another as cheery greetings led her forward.
But Lillian was not neglected for long. Even before she could stretch her cramped legs and rearrange her own wrinkled skirts, she was drawn forward for many introductions. They followed so quickly on one another that Lillian was sure she’d never keep them all straight. One young woman caught her attention. She stood, baby boy tucked on her hip, a welcoming smile lighting her face. “And this is Elizabeth—Hope Valley’s schoolteacher,” Miss Tilly was saying.
Lillian nodded her hello and reached for the outstretched hand. In her heart she instantly felt that this was someone she’d really like to know.
But she was quickly turned to another smiling greeter. “I’m Rosemary, Lee’s wife.”
Lillian recalled the name spoken often by townsfolk. It was nice to have a face to go along with the references. She had little time to ponder as more hands reached for hers. “I’m Dotty.”
“Hi, I’m Clara.”
“Hello. I’m Faith, Dr. Shepherd’s nurse. We met when I assisted with Lemuel’s cast removal. How is his arm? Better, I hope.”
Lillian had little time to give a nod in response. Another hand was reaching to claim hers. Her mind was spinning. She’d never be able to sort them all out. And now there were children pressing close. Some hugging Miss Tilly, some clamoring for a bit of the attention, others hanging back in typical childish shyness. Lillian was glad when the little group began to move forward.
Pastor Bukowski waved over his shoulder toward Lillian and Miss Tilly as he struck out for the church building and his own business in Hope Valley. “I’m goin’ to meet with fellas from the church about those new classes. I’ll catch up to ya after.”
“Yup, see ya in a bit then, Bucky,” Miss Tilly responded. “Now, let’s jest catch our breath and have a cup of tea to wash the road dust from our throats.”
Lillian suddenly realized that she actually did feel the grit of road dust. She’d given it no thought, but she was only too happy to enter the small teahouse. She noted that as they stepped inside, they lost many of the crowd who’d welcomed them. It seemed that the town was back to business once again, the guests being duly welcomed and now allowed to go about their plans for the day.
Only Miss Tilly’s friend now accompanied them. The two ladies were so busy visiting that Lillian felt a welcomed opportunity to take a deep breath and try to sort out all of the excitement of what had just happened. She was looking forward to that cup of tea.
It seemed the day passed too quickly. But before they were to travel back to Brookfield, Miss Tilly had somehow gathered the ranks into the little church for a bit of a chitchat. Lillian had no idea of the purpose for the gathering as she watched many women and even a few men begin to enter and fill the pews. There was Doc Shepherd, sitting beside his nurse. She noticed a woman she’d met earlier, holding the arm of a nice-looking man as she entered. It was Rosemary. That must be her Lee, Lillian reasoned. She got no further. Miss Tilly surprised her by taking charge.
“I want all of ya ta meet Lillian Wa
lsh,” she began without preamble. “Her an’ her sister Grace’re carryin’ a big load. They opened their lovely home to bring in kids with no other place ta go. Now, they don’t plan on raisin’ ’em all theirselves—jest care for ’em till they find ’em proper homes. Don’t have many girls right now—mostly young boys—but they’re all good kids, every one. Good little workers too. Have their own chores to do, taught good manners, an’ they’re all in school learnin’. Oh, an’ bein’ Bible taught too.” She nodded her affirmation toward where Lillian was seated. “The young ladies’re payin’ the way for these young’uns theirselves, ’cept fer the bit’a help they git here and there, so iffen there’s any way you can give ’em a hand, it’d be more’n appreciated.”
Her words aren’t entirely accurate. Lillian struggled with whether or not they should be corrected. Miss Tilly interrupted her musings.
“Now, Miss Lillian, come on up here and tell ’em ’bout how this all happened an’ answer their questions for ’em.”
Lillian felt a rush of panic. She was sure her face had flushed. What was Miss Tilly doing? And why hadn’t she discussed this—given her some warning? She managed to rise to her feet, hardly aware of the hearty applause from the little audience. What do I say? Well, the first words are obvious. Thank you. Then what?
Surprisingly, her childhood training in elocution took effect. “Thank you, Mother,” she breathed softly as she willed herself to think, to remember. The words of appreciation were briefly spoken. She even managed a smile. And then she began the story—her own story and Grace’s—and how they came into relationship with the precious children. She explained how far away the children had come from, why she and Grace had been entrusted with them, and what they hoped to accomplish. The further she advanced through their story, the calmer she became—and the more passionately she could express what she and Grace were doing. She watched the faces of those who sat before her. They were listening. Their eyes held compassion. Here were people who understood, whose hearts were responding to the needs of others. Lillian felt tears wanting to come. She fought against them. Mother, is this what you had in mind? Is this why you took so much time to prepare me as you did? And more than anything else, could there be homes here among these good people?
