CHAPTER 9

Julia finished buttoning her blouse with shaking fingers. Dr. Clayborne was waiting for her in the outer office, one that belonged to a colleague, since his own office was not equipped for this type of examination. Filled with books and papers, it was only used for verbal consultations with his patients, while the bulk of his work was conducted in the physical therapy room.

Dr. Clayborne had assured her that no one would mind him using this room, and he’d found a nurse willing to assist him in the examination. Would they have been able to come to any conclusions about her condition this soon or would she have to wait for the bloodwork?

Either way, Julia dreaded walking through that door. Lord, help me to be strong and to bear whatever the doctor has to say.

She brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, picked up her handbag, and went to face her destiny.

Seated behind a large desk, Dr. Clayborne’s features betrayed little, but as he watched her take a seat, his eyes filled with sympathy.

Julia’s stomach dropped. Bile coated the back of her throat, her body already aware of what was to come. “It’s not good news, I take it.”

“That depends on how you look at it, I suppose.” He gave her a slight smile. “Your suspicions were correct, Miss Holloway. I believe you are indeed expecting. From the information you’ve given me, I suspect you’re about three months along.”

Julia covered her mouth with a trembling hand. “Dear Lord,” she whispered. “What am I going to do now?” Her eyes burned with the threat of tears, her mind spinning. How long would she be able to work? She’d have to hide her condition as long as possible, for without an income, how would she live?

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Dr. Clayborne said, “what about the baby’s father? Surely he should take some responsibility for the situation.”

Julia focused her gaze on her lap, where she twisted a rather worn handkerchief between her fingers. The thought of facing that man again—the one she’d thought so kind but who had taken advantage of her in the worst possible way—brought another wave of nausea. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

“I see.” The physician leaned over his desk, his forehead creased. “Forgive me if I’m getting too personal, but I couldn’t help noticing the time of conception coincides roughly with the date of Private McIntyre’s death.”

She clamped her lips together to stop their trembling.

“Is Sam the father of your child?”

The gentle question ripped at Julia’s heart. If only this baby were Sam’s. At least then she could look forward to seeing a resemblance to someone she truly cared about. Instead, the child was the product of a man who’d used his position of trust to prey on Julia at her most vulnerable moment.

“I’m afraid not. While I was very fond of Sam, our relationship was not a romantic one.”

An awkward silence descended. Julia tried to breathe normally under Dr. Clayborne’s scrutiny, but her lungs felt incapable of fully inflating.

“Did the father make promises to you? If so, where is he now?”

“No, it wasn’t like that.”

His brows shot up. “You weren’t forced—?”

“Please, I don’t wish to talk about it.” She swallowed the acid rising in her throat. Even if she could speak of it, just picturing Dr. Clayborne’s reaction would keep her silent, not willing to risk losing the one ally she had. She forced herself to meet his gaze.

“Very well. I respect your right to privacy.” He hesitated. “Will you at least tell the man? Give him the opportunity to do the right thing?”

She shook her head. Facing Dr. Hawkins, admitting her condition—no, she could never do that. No matter how dire her circumstances. “I don’t think so. It’s a rather complicated situation.”

“I see. Well, then, what can I do to help?”

The tears she’d kept at bay now welled anew. They brimmed over her lower lashes and dripped down her cheeks. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I need to keep this confidential for as long as possible. I can’t afford to lose my job.”

The doctor remained quiet for several seconds. “Perhaps I could look into possible maternity homes for when you can no longer work.”

The sympathy on his face was more than she could bear. But she needed his support since he would be the only other person privy to her condition. “That would be helpful. Thank you.”

Dr. Clayborne rose and came around the desk. “Try not to despair, Julia. I’ll be praying for you, that God will provide you with the people and the resources you need to see you through this trying time.”

“I appreciate that.” She got to her feet, still somewhat shaky.

He steadied her with a light touch to her elbow. “Come and I’ll call you a cab. Once you’re home, I prescribe a cup of tea, followed by a good night’s sleep. Matters are bound to look better in the morning.”

She secretly doubted that would be true. If anything, the world would appear even bleaker once the enormity of her situation sank in. “Thank you, but I’ll take the bus. The fresh air will do me good.” In reality, she didn’t want to waste her limited funds on a taxi.

“If you’re sure you’re all right.”

“I’m fine. Thank you again for everything.” With as much dignity as she could muster, Julia left the office and made her way outside.

For some reason, as she walked down the street, her thoughts flew to Quinn, and she thanked her good fortune that he was not around to witness her utter demoralization. Despite his chivalrous attempts to help her, she now found herself in a worse situation than ever.

By the time Quinn returned, she would need to have her composure in place so he wouldn’t detect anything amiss. And then she would have to sever all ties with the man before he could learn of her disgrace. For she couldn’t bear it if he or her uncle ever knew the truth.

After almost an hour’s journey, Quinn came to a stop in front of the dirt road leading to the Wolfe farm. He’d walked all the way from the Caledon train depot, following the station master’s very specific directions, and during the entire trip, he’d been trying to come up with a different way to approach Harry. Talking to the farmer or his family, as Quinn had tried to do with Cecil’s employer, probably wouldn’t help him. Mr. Hobday’s words came back to Quinn. “But be advised, Mr. Aspinall, any interference with these children will not be tolerated.” It appeared the man wasn’t exaggerating.

So, what could he do differently this time to ensure a better outcome?

The most logical course of action seemed to be trying to find Harry without involving the farmer. He only prayed his youngest brother would be happier to see him than Cecil had.

The sun heated Quinn’s shoulders as he started down the road, making him wish he could remove his jacket, but he wanted to make a good impression should he run into anyone in charge, so he kept it on. As he came closer to the main barn, Quinn stepped off the path and crossed a grassy area to a slatted wooden fence. Bending low, Quinn followed the line of fencing toward the barn, hoping he wouldn’t be too noticeable. When he reached the wooden structure, which, from the peeling paint and missing boards, looked like it had seen better days, Quinn crouched behind a wide tree trunk.

Several men went in and out of the double barn doors, one leading a cow by a rope. A second man drove a flock of sheep in from the pasture. All the workers looked too old to be indentured British boys. So where was Harry?

When the coast was clear, Quinn sprinted across to the barn and around the back. He stopped in the shade of a tree and took a minute to survey the area.

A second later, Quinn’s heart rate shot up. In a nearby pigsty, a thin boy shoveled muck into a bucket while the pigs ate from a trough at the opposite end, snorting their pleasure. Could this lad be Harry?

Staying behind some shrubs, Quinn moved closer. The boy’s back remained to Quinn, and he almost groaned in frustration. Since no one was in the vicinity, Quinn took a chance and approached the pen.

“Excuse me. Can you help me with something?”

The boy turned. Dark circles hugged eyes that appeared sunken. Cheekbones stood out against the rest of his gaunt face. He glanced up, then looked down at the ground. “You’d best talk to Mr. Murdoch, the farm foreman.” He went right back to shoveling the slop.

Though Quinn could make out some familiar traits, he couldn’t be sure the boy was his brother. “I’m looking for Harrison Aspinall,” he said. “I understand he works here.”

The boy’s hands stopped moving. Slowly he turned around again. A mixture of fear and suspicion flashed over his face. “I’m Harrison. Who are you?”

Quinn winced. Had it been so long that Harry no longer remembered him? He stared for a moment, taking in his brother’s features. In the hazel eyes and swath of freckles across his cheeks, he found traces of the youngster he remembered. Yet Harry’s thinness and rather stooped posture belied his age of twelve. By the looks of him, Quinn would have thought him no more than nine. He swallowed the lump in his throat and moved closer to the fence, where he took off his cap and attempted a smile. “Don’t you recognize your own brother?”

Harry went white. His mouth fell open, and the shovel slipped from his fingers into the mud. “Quinn? Is it you?”

“Yes, Harry. It’s me. I’ve come to take you home.”

The boy gave a strangled cry. In a flash, he scrambled over the fence and threw his arms around him, pressing his face into Quinn’s chest. Harry’s frail body shook so hard that Quinn automatically tightened his grip on the boy. When he did, the protrusion of every sharp ridge in the boy’s spine bit into Quinn’s palm. Despite the stench of unwashed body and pig manure that wafted upward, Quinn pulled Harry closer, hardly able to believe he’d found him. Though he longed to savor the moment, urgency made him end the embrace.

“Get your things, Harry. We need to make it to the station before the next train is due to leave.” And before the farmer has time to miss you.

Harry’s face, blotchy with tears, crumpled even more. “I can’t leave, Quinn. I have chores to do.” His eyes widened as he scanned the area around them.

Quinn frowned. Maybe Harry didn’t understand his meaning. “Not anymore. I’m taking you away from here for good. Home to Mum, where you belong. Come on. No time to waste.” He propelled Harry toward the barn. “Change your clothes and wash off some of that . . . dirt.”

Harry came to a stop. “I don’t have any other clothes. This is it.”

Quinn fought to keep his dismay and his distaste from showing. He’d have to take Harry as is, manure and all, and hope to sit at the back of the train so as not to offend the other passengers. “It’s all right. I’ll buy you some new ones tomorrow. Now let’s get a move on.”

Deftly, he steered Harry toward the cover of foliage in the hopes of avoiding detection. But they’d only gone a few feet when loud footsteps sounded behind them.

Harry gasped and stopped dead. “It’s Mr. Murdoch. We can’t let him see us.” The boy clutched his stomach like he might be sick.

In a protective gesture, Quinn shoved Harry behind a bush and ducked down beside him. A burly man strode over to the pigsty, scanned the area, then strode into the barn, frowning.

“He’s looking for me. I have to go.” Harry looked panicked.

Quinn rested his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Harry, what do you want to do? Come with me or stay here?”

Harry’s eyes widened, darting from Quinn to the barn and back. “I . . . I don’t know.” His body began to shake beneath Quinn’s fingers.

Was it fair to expect the lad to make such a quick decision when he was obviously terrified?

“Listen, I know you have work to do. Why don’t you take some time to think it over? I’ll come back in the morning and we can make a decision then.”

Harry bit his lip. “You promise you’ll come back?”

“First thing tomorrow. I promise. Have your belongings ready to go, just in case, and don’t tell anyone I was here.” Then Quinn pulled the boy in for a quick hug. “Now, off you go and try not to worry.”

“All right. Bye, Quinn.” Harry scurried off toward the barn.

Quinn waited until the boy was out of sight before pulling his cap lower on his forehead and settling into a more comfortable position amid the bushes. He wanted to wait a bit longer to make sure this Murdoch character wasn’t giving Harry a hard time, and after several minutes when nothing seemed amiss, Quinn started back through the foliage toward the main road.

As he walked, Quinn’s gut churned. He hated leaving Harry here when he was so clearly anxious, but what could he do? Drag the boy off the property? That wouldn’t be fair to him and would feel too close to kidnapping.

Quinn would find a room for the night and return at dawn the next morning. Hopefully by then, Harry would have come to terms with leaving the farm, and Quinn would be able to get him away without any trouble.