What she didn't know

WHAT SHE DIDN’T KNOW

 

We are the chosen. In each family, there is one who seems

called to find the ancestors. To put flesh on their bones and

make them live again; to tell the family story and to feel that

somehow, they know and approve.

Doing genealogy is not a cold gathering of facts, but instead,

breathing life into all who have gone before.

We are the storytellers of the tribe.

All tribes have one. We have been called,

As it were, by our genes.

Those who have gone before cry out to us:

Tell our story. So, we do.

In finding them, we somehow find ourselves.

 

                                                          Della M Cummings Wright

 

Prologue

She was whisked away before the exhausted mother could reach for her new born daughter. Too tired to focus, and in pain mixed with physical and emotional numbness, the new mother closed her eyes and rested her head upon the pillow.  

Sister Evelyn had delivered the baby and was now cleaning the baby and wrapping her in warmed flannelette. “Look at this poor wee mite, not quite five pounds but strong,” Sister Evelyn told the other two nuns. “So many of them don’t survive a year, but this one looks like she is pretty determined!”

The other two nuns busily continued cleaning up the new mother and her bed and spoke in hushed voices. The small and delicate nun with the soft smile and kindly eyes, looked at the mother’s face. She seemed to be in and out of wakefulness but both the nun and the new mother had a certain sadness in their eyes. Hard to separate a birth mother and baby, but there was no choice.

“What name shall I put on the birth card? I know all September babies have the same surname but what will I record for her Christian name?” asked Sister Mary Margaret, the nun who seemed most business like and perhaps a touch emotionless. 

Sister Patricia looked to ascertain the mother was asleep and then spoke quietly, “We could name her Eva or Eve. It has been a long hard labour but the wee one entered this world this evening.”  “Very well,” replied Sister Mary Margaret, “her name will be Eva.  Her date of birth is now recorded as September 14, 1925.”

Sister Evelyn, Sister Mary Margaret and Sister Patricia had left their own worldly and personal cares behind when they joined the Misericordia Sisters in Montreal. They had taken a vow of poverty, chastity, obedience and a fourth vow to serve poor or single mothers. They had taken formal medical training and carried out their ministry discreetly. This evening was yet another delivery of a baby in an unfortunate circumstance. As always, they would be compassionate, respectful and provide care to both the mother and baby. 

. . .

Violet woke in the middle of the night, confused about where she was. She was alone yet felt like there had been others with her before she fell asleep. Then she remembered, her name was no longer Violet.  It had been changed when she came to this home. They were calling her Agnes and she couldn’t tell them who she really was or where she had come from. She had been left at the gate months earlier with strict orders to not disclose anything about herself or her family. She was a disgrace to the family. She was a grown woman; single at thirty-nine years old and pregnant to a bigamist. What a mess! As she drifted back to sleep, she chastised herself for being so naïve, so gullible, and so foolish.

In her dream, she was back at the Christmas Party the previous December. As the company bookkeeper, she was invited to the Christmas Party with the engineers and employees who had completed the Quebec Bridge just five years earlier. Some she knew by name but didn’t know much about the private lives of the employees. Occasionally, she would have reason to speak with the engineers but did not socialize outside of work. To attend the Christmas party at the Mount Royal Hotel was the most exciting thing she had ever done! It had opened two years earlier and was such a luxurious building. 

She hesitated at the entrance, but on the arm of the gentleman escorting her, she looked around at the glitter and glam of the foyer, the elegantly dressed staff, the silver trays of champagne flutes, the chandeliers and all the guests in their finery. She wanted desperately to feel she belonged.

Henry was nine years older than her but he had such boyish good looks, bright blue hooded eyes and trimmed sandy red hair. His suit was well tailored and he was so handsome. He wasn’t much taller than her and when he spoke, he looked her straight in the eye and made her feel like the most important person at the party. He too, had come from a prominent family and had a social status equal to her own. He found excuses to come into the office where she worked for various reasons and always gave her the boyish smile and a teasing wink. She dared think that perhaps she might be the only sibling to leave home and start a life of her own. Other than her baby brother Bernard, her two sisters and two brothers still lived at home with her parents. Bernard only left because he died in infancy. Her upbringing had been so strict that any social activity revolved around the Church of England. Her father had descended from a long line of Quakers. Her siblings had never experienced a night like this!

But then everything happened so fast.

 Violet’s Story

1925

When Violet awoke the morning after the delivery, she was in a ward all alone.  The other young girls and women were not anywhere nearby.  She heard muffled crying from a room close by, but otherwise, she was isolated. 

Sister Patricia quietly tapped on the door and delivered a breakfast tray. Tea, toast and porridge but Violet had no appetite. She didn’t have strength to sit up but Sister Patricia plumped the pillow and coaxed her to drink a little tea.

“How are you feeling this morning, Agnes?”, the sister inquired. “Can you try a wee bit of food?”

Violet liked Sister Patricia the best since she arrived in the spring but she couldn’t look at the food before her. Her body ached and her heart ached. “Where is my baby?” she asked. “Was it a girl or a boy?” “I am sorry, Agnes, but we cannot talk about this. The baby was healthy and has been taken to the nursery to be looked after by some of the sisters. In due time, the infant will be adopted.”

“Can you tell me if I had a daughter or a son?” pleaded Violet. “No, I am sorry it is against the rules. You will not see the baby and once you are strong enough, you will work in the kitchen each day to pay off your room and board and medical costs,” Sister Patricia said as gently as she could.

“When you have worked here for four months, you father has arranged for your passage to England to stay with relatives. As far as your employer knows, you left your job for an opportunity to work in Reigate; your boss believes you are already living in England,” the nun explained.

“In the meantime, Agnes, I suggest you rest and repent. You are not the first woman to come to us in these circumstances, although you are one of the older ones,” Sister Patricia said as she left the room.

For days, Violet went from tears to relief to sadness to guilt. How could she have disappointed her father and mother so badly? Had they not warned her that Henry was not husband material? How could she give up the only baby and only grandchild they would ever have? Her sisters Dorothy and Emily Maud Mary were spinsters, Charles and Ralph were confirmed bachelors. Surely, they could have warmed to the idea of a descendant to carry on the Barton name. There was no pleading with her parents and Henry certainly didn’t have interest in raising a child from their fling. She would carry this family secret to the grave.  Nobody would ever know other than her parents. Someday she would return from England and carry on with her life. 

A few days later, Sister Mary Margaret took Violet aside in the kitchen. “Agnes, I am afraid I have some bad news for you. We received word this morning, that your father passed away yesterday.” 

 Her father! How could that be? Violet let out a cry that was heard throughout the building and collapsed on the cold floor.

“Agnes, you will not be able to attend his funeral. He died yesterday, September

29, and his funeral will be next week. Since you are supposedly already working in England, the truth would be uncovered if you attended his funeral.”

Sister Mary Margaret was firm but not unkind. He will be buried in Outremont and someday you will be able to visit him there. “I am sorry for your loss,” she said as she walked away.

Her father…her father. He had dropped her off at the gate just months before and she had not seen him since. There had been no communication with her family as the charade continued. She knew one day she would return home to her family as if she had enjoyed a wonderful career in England. They would still love her and life would go on. Now she would never be able to tell her father how sorry she was for the shame she caused him.

 He had been everything to her and her siblings and her mother. He had been named as one of Canada’s leading men in 1901 and 1902. He was so well respected at the Alexandra Hospital in Montreal where he worked as the secretary-treasurer.  Trained as a chartered accountant, he was hired in 1906 to this leadership role at the hospital. Until he retired just five years earlier, he had enjoyed a successful and respected career. 

He had worked with and been friends with Dr. John McCrea, physician of contagious diseases. He had started at Alexandra Hospital just months after her father. Years later, Doctor McCrea penned ‘In Flanders Fields’ and they were all so proud to know him. The war years had been hard on them as it was on so many others but they had weathered it better than their family in England. The war had changed so much.

 Her father was so well connected. He had solved her little problem quite easily by speaking to the right people but now he was gone!

Her father had been a competitive sailor and a leading figure in regattas at

Longueuil. Her family had always cheered him on. Even after his brother John Henry had drowned in the St. Lawrence while sailing, her father continued to race competitively. His name was well known and if he was racing, it would be an exciting race.

This could not be; her father could not be dead. 

What would become of her mother and siblings? She couldn’t imagine what was going on at home. Her baby brother had died years earlier before he had turned a year old. The family had clung to each other through their grief and her mother had never quite recovered the loss of the infant.  Now her father was dead and she was trapped within the walls around her. Her mother and siblings had each other. She had no one.

The months passed and Violet kept to herself.  She had no contact with her friends or family and did not involve herself with the other women at the home.  She wondered if her baby was still in a wing of the home or if the adoption had already taken place. The nuns were tight lipped and would not offer information.

Early in the New Year, Sister Mary Margaret approached her in the sitting room as she quietly worked on a baby’s sweater with wool and knitting needles after her kitchen chores had been completed. “Agnes, the time has come for your passage to England. Your ship will leave on Thursday. You can pack up your belongings and vacate your room. A driver will get you to the port in time for your sailing. Good luck to you in your new life.” Without a hint of a smile, Sister Mary Margaret turned and walked away.

Violet knew this day would arrive yet leaving these walls for a country unknown was unsettling. She knew her grandparents, John Charles Barton and Mary Swanwick Barton had been from England and travelled back and forth to Montreal but they had passed away when she was a young girl. Her mother, Louisa had been born in England but came to Canada when she was four years old. Violet had no England connection and the thought of being alone there was upsetting.

Bright and early Thursday morning, Violet packed her bag, stripped the bed, closed the door and walked towards the main door.  There was nobody she cared to say good bye to because the turn over was ever changing and she had never befriended any of the women. Sister Mary Margaret called her into the office to give her the paper work for her passage and some money that her father had provided the day he dropped her off. It was enough to help her settle and find accommodation. On another slip of paper, Sister Mary Margaret wrote an address of an office that was expecting her in ten days time.  

“Good luck Agnes, I hope you have learned your lesson and will settle well into your new life.” And with that, her time with the Misericordia sisters was done.

. . .

An uneventful passage of the Atlantic Ocean, gave Violet time to recall the stories her mother had told her of her early beginnings in England. Her mother was born Louisa Maud Nixon in 1848 to Henry Nixon and Francis Mary (Batty) Nixon. She was the third of four children. Her brother, William was five years older and her sister, Fanny was four years older. When Louisa was two years old, her baby sister Anne was born. Anne was like a tiny live doll to Louisa. Her older siblings were already in school so Louisa had all day to play with baby Anne. Her father worked as a typesetter and went to work every day and came home with hands covered in ink every night. Her mother Francis, loved home life and the children. They weren’t wealthy but they weren’t hungry or poor.

Violet remembered the story her mother told her of the winter everyone got sick. Cholera had contaminated a water pump in London in 1837 and by 1853, ten thousand lives were claimed in London. Her baby sister was one of the casualties. Not yet two years old, she was buried in the lower level of Bunhill Field Burial Grounds. Many young children were buried that same day…April 17, 1853.

Nine months later, January 17, 1854, Louisa’s father succumbed to the disease when he was just forty years old. It was unbearable for her mother to lose her baby and husband in such a short time. Putting her father to rest with his young daughter was impossible as the Bunhill Field Burial Grounds were filled with cholera casualties. Her mother arranged burial at Camden Cemetery. Anne was alone at Bunhill and her husband was alone at Comden.  No income, no husband, no baby…no reason for her mother to stay in England.

. . . 

Henry’s Story

1924

“Oh, come on Violet, what is it going to hurt if you attend the company Christmas party? You are part of the company; you deserve to get out and celebrate! How many times do I have to ask you to go with me?” Henry begged.

 “I’ve told you before Henry, my parents do not approve of parties or alcohol and I would be going against their wishes,” explained Violet. Henry was not used to not getting what he wanted. Women came easily to Henry and he knew he would eventually wear Violet down. 

“Violet, you are a grown woman, nearly forty years old! Why do you let them control you? You could be out on your own, in your own apartment or married and living with your own family. You don’t have to live all together,” Henry reminded her.

Henry had met her parents and thought they were too serious, too strict, too controlling and way too religious. Their family life revolved around the Church of England. He knew they didn’t think highly of him. Oh, if they only knew!

After weeks of flirting, flattering and begging, Violet agreed to attend the Christmas Party with Henry. He knew she was nervous and reluctant but he promised her the time of her life. 

On the evening of the Christmas Party, Henry asked Violet to meet him at the hotel. Since Violet’s family had moved to the Westmount St. Henri area, it wasn’t far for her to travel. Henry felt it best if he did not have to face her parents at their home. He had dressed with care and pulled out all the charm he could muster and met her just outside the lobby of the grand hotel entrance. With a smile and a wink, he offered his arm and escorted Violet through the doors with confidence the evening would turn out just as he had planned.

 

Henry

His Younger Years

Henry had been born in 1877 in Harrogate, Yorkshire, England. He was the third of six children. His father, Octavius Atkinson was a blacksmith, a whitesmith and gas fitter in their village and by the time Henry was born, his father had his own black smith shop. His father assumed Henry would work with him as he was the oldest surviving son. His first-born son and daughter were both born in 1875 but the son died the first year. Henry was born two years later and became the eldest son and most likely to take over the family business.

“I have built this shop from nothing but hard work all these years.  Now I have five men working for me”, Octavius proudly told his family. “Who would have thought I would become a whitesmith master as well?” 

 “When Henry is old enough, he will apprentice with me and become a blacksmith too!” his father proudly told his family and workers.  Little Henry was only four years old at the time. As Henry grew into a teenager, blacksmithing seemed like drudgery.

His father, Octavius Atkinson encouraged Henry, “Henry, you have to put your heart and soul into succeeding. You need to take pride in your work!” 

Day after day, Henry worked alongside his father in the shop but did not share the enthusiasm that his father had.  “I would rather be an engineer and maybe work into the business in that capacity”. By the time Henry completed his education as an engineer, his father was dead.  Not quite twenty years old, Henry had more responsibility than he could handle. 

Day in and day out, he kept the shop operating with the help of his father’s loyal workers. His heart wasn’t in it but he owed it to his father to keep the business running. He watched his younger brothers, William, Thomas and George grow into young men.  He mentored them along hoping someday one of them would follow in his father’s footsteps and he would be free to do as he wanted.

In 1903, he married Jessie Brown and fathered three daughters. His home life made up for the life he endured at the shop. His youngest brother, George had a keen interest in the family business which Henry recognized that he himself, was lacking. 

When his youngest daughter turned seven, Henry needed a change.  The shop was in capable hands and was growing. Jessie could manage the girls who were now ten, eight and seven.

He had been watching the happenings of Quebec and the excitement of the Quebec Bridge. “What would you think if I went to Canada and offered my engineering skills to the construction of the bridge?” he asked his wife. They had been married eleven years and the girls were doing well. He was feeling restless with family life and work life and thought a year away would be good for all of them.

“You will come back?” Jessie asked with a hint of concern.

“Of course I will come back. My family is all here: you and my girls, my sister and brothers, my mother…it’s just this opportunity would give me the experience I have always wanted.  I can use my engineering education on this project and make a lot of money,” Henry informed her.

Reluctantly Jessie agreed.  His girls and wife were not as happy with his decision as he appeared to be.

On June 11, 1914, Henry sailed from Liverpool to New York aboard the SS Celtic arriving on June 20, 1914. On the ship’s manifest, Henry gave vague answers about where he was going or where he would be staying. He simply said the address was undecided and he would be staying in a hotel. He gave his contact as William Bateman, his brother who was two years his junior.

As he made his way to Quebec from New York, Henry was as free as a bird. He had no obligations and he could carve whatever interesting life he desired.

Upon arriving in Quebec, he made his way to the office of the engineering company for the Quebec Bridge. 

“My name is Henry Octavius Atkinson; I have arrived from England. I apprenticed as a blacksmith in my family’s business and I was educated as an engineer as well. I would like to offer my skills to this project. Are you hiring any men?”

“Yes, we could use a few good men. How soon could you start? Monday? Here is a list of rooming houses where you could find affordable accommodation. Welcome aboard,” the recruiter told him.

 After securing a room off Sherbrooke Street in Montreal, Henry felt obligated to write to his wife and family and let them know he had arrived.

 June, 28, 1914

Dearest Jessie,

I have arrived safe and sound. The passage took exactly ten days and the crossing was fairly smooth. We landed in New York and I made my way to Montreal. Canada is such a young country compared to England and there is development everywhere and there are opportunities everywhere! 

I made my way to the offices of the Quebec Bridge and they seem quite eager to have me. I think I impressed them with my background.

At any rate, they need help. The collapse we read about at home in August of 1907, was much worse than we imagined. For one thing, the calculations were never checked. The weight of the bridge exceeded its’ carrying capacity.  They noticed distortions in the structure and knew it had been poorly designed but they carried on with the construction anyways. Even the materials they used were inferior quality. The south arm of the bridge and part of the centre section collapsed into the St. Lawrence River. The bridge was supposed to connect the north and south shore but after four years of construction, there is no bridge. Even worse seventy-five workers were killed when it collapsed and the other eleven were injured. I am sure I am needed here.

How are the girls? Are you lonely without me? I trust the shop is running smoothly under George’s leadership.

I will write again soon, Love to all, Henry

. . .

Through 1914 and 1915, Henry enjoyed life in Montreal. After work, he and the guys could go for a pint and not have to worry about wives and children. The bridge was redesigned and would eventually link the two shores of the St. Lawrence and link the railways in Quebec and the United States. 

 

December,1914

Dear Jessie,

How are things at home? I hope you are managing without me. I am needed here. The bridge is such a huge project. It has had to be redesigned from the ground up and I am not certain how many months it will take to complete.

Unfortunately, I will not be home for Christmas this year as I had hoped.

I am enclosing a little extra for you to find something very special for Marion, Marjorie and Eileen. Please buy something beautiful for yourself. Know that I am working hard and missing you and the girls.

Merry Christmas. Love as always,

Henry

 

Once again, reconstruction of the bridge consumed Henry. The new design was for a long cantilever span but with a more massive structure. New engineers were appointed to oversee the construction.  On September 11, 1916, as the centre section was raised into position on the bridge, it fell into the river killing 13 workers. Reconstruction began almost immediately.  Work in the day, the pub at night. It was on an evening in September 1916, that Henry met Albert Allen and shared a few rounds. Albert had arrived from England the year before as an examiner for the British Munitions plant in Verdun. It was an evening of camaraderie and Henry found that both he and Albert loved to end the day with a pint at the pub. On one of the evenings, Albert told Henry that his daughter Rose was going to be joining him. She was a dressmaker and had spent time in England as a seamstress, followed by time in United States as a dressmaker. Now she was coming to stay with her father in Montreal. 

One night in early autumn, Albert walked into the pub with a beautiful woman by his side. As he sat down beside Henry, he introduced Rose. “Henry, this is my daughter who has arrived from the United States. She is going to be staying with me at my hotel. My wife will be joining us as soon as she gets her passage. Henry shook Rose’s hand and offered to buy her a drink. “What would you like?” Henry asked in his smoothest, most mannered voice. “Oh, just a ginger ale for me, thanks. That would be lovely,” replied Rose. The evening passed cordially with easy conversation between Albert, Rose and Henry.

A little later in the week, Rose arrived at the pub without her dad. “It gets a little boring with just Dad and myself. I will be glad when my mother arrives. Tonight, he has a meeting and is tied up. I thought I would come down on my own. Is that okay?” she asked Henry. “That is perfectly good, I was just sitting here alone. I am glad for your company,” replied Henry.

December, 1916

Jessie,

It seems impossible that I have been delayed once again with this bridge. There was suspicion that the bridge had been sabotaged by Germans. Now they have guards at the bridge full time and are not taking chances. With the demand for steel in the war effort, it has been difficult to get quality steel.  I have met others from home that are working here in Quebec and have company in the evenings.

The girls must be getting big by now. Do they even remember me?

Merry Christmas,

Henry

 

Without further mishap, 1917 saw the bridge completed. It was September 17, 1917 and Henry felt a celebration was in order. First, he thought to himself, I must write Jessie and the girls and let them know I will be home for Christmas.

 

         September 17, 1917

Dear Jessie, 

Believe it or not, we are finished! I will be home for Christmas. I can’t believe it has been three years since I left you for Canada. A plaque has been installed on the bridge with all our names. Finally, the project is complete and in a months’ time, the first train will cross the St. Lawrence River. It has cost more than $23 million dollars and eighty-eight lives but is the longest cantilevered bridge in the world and is considered a major engineering accomplishment. 

See you soon,

 Love, Henry

“Well, my letter was mostly true”, thought Henry. “Maybe I ‘engineered’ the part about my name on the plaque but I did spend three years of my life on this project.”

After mailing his letter, Henry searched out Rose. “Let’s go celebrate! We are done.” 

. . .

Life was relaxed, life was fun and Henry was going home. One evening in late November as he was enjoying his nightly beer, Albert stormed into the pub.

“You lousy, low-life scoundrel!” Albert shouted. He grabbed Henry by the collar and all but spit in his face. “How dare you touch my daughter! She is only sixteen years old. You have got to be forty years old! How could you take advantage of my young daughter?” 

“Albert, I had no idea she is sixteen. She is an accomplished dressmaker and very mature. I knew she was younger than me but I had no idea she was just a teenager. We didn’t discuss ages. We enjoyed each others company and going out. It has all been in fun,” Henry defended himself.

“Oh, I can see it has been fun alright,” the enraged Albert continued, “Rose is pregnant and you are the father! You will marry my daughter and do right by her. You were an alright drinking companion but you will never be what I hoped for a son-in-law.” Albert could hardly hold back from punching Henry in the face.

“I have arranged a ceremony at St. Peter’s Anglican Church in Sherbrooke for December 10 and YOU WILL BE THERE!” Albert turned and left, leaving Henry studying his drink.

“Now what? Marriage is impossible. I already have a wife and three daughters,” Henry thought to himself.  “It’s not legal to have two wives. I can’t talk myself out of this one. Well, I guess I’m going to a wedding in two weeks.”

On December 10, 1917, Henry Octavius Atkinson, an engineer and bachelor married Rose Eleanor Florence Allen, a spinster in Sherbrooke Quebec. Baby Refa was born in the early summer of 1918. Henry now had four daughters but they would never know about each other’s family.

Rose’s parents returned to England at the end of 1918 and encouraged Rose to return to England as well. With constant pressure from her parents, Rose boarded the SS White Star Dominion with Refa barely walking and six months pregnant with another child.

Henry promised to join her as soon as his new work contract was complete but knew he never would. If he returned to England he would be jailed as a bigamist. Writing letters and sending money to two wives and two families promising his return would be pointless for he knew he would never again set foot in England, nor would he know that he would have five daughters.

. . .

Louisa

February, 1925

Louisa Maud sat in her comfortable parlour with contented grace. She was seventy-seven years old and life had turned out well for her. She had suffered her share of loss and hardship, but marrying Edward Alfred Barton had been the best thing in life. Edward or Ned as she called him, had been retired for five years from Alexandra Hospital. Together, they had raised their children in a good Christian home. They were pillars of the church and the community.

Louisa reflected on her roots. She was just a young child when her baby sister died of cholera in London and then her dad passed just a few months later. It was the saddest time for her mother but it was sad for her too. Leaving England and leaving her sister and dad behind was too much for a four-year-old to understand. She didn’t want to get on a ship or move to a new country. Her mother tried to make it sound exciting…an adventure on a big boat to a new land. They were going to sail across the ocean! 

“Our ship will sail to Quebec and then we will take a barge up the St. Lawrence

River. The government has made our passage less expensive if we settle in Canada. If we took the ship to a port in the United States, it would have been too expensive,” her mother explained to her and her siblings.

. . .

“Come, Louisa, hold my hand. We cannot be separated in this crowd,” her mother had said. Her two older siblings were old enough to walk together and stay together as they made their way to the ship. Her new step father, Stephen Jones walked beside them carrying a bag with the family’s essentials that they would need on the trip. Their other belongings had been packed up and put with the ship’s cargo. It wasn’t that they could bring everything they owned but her mother, Fanny had packed the sentimental belongings and things they would need to get started in the new country.

Although Louisa hadn’t had very long to get to know her new step father before they embarked on the trip, he was kind to her and her siblings and her mother didn’t seem quite as sad. Mr. Jones, her step dad, had been their neighbour and friend and had tried to help them out when her dad had died. It was her step dad who suggested a fresh start and a new life together in Canada. He was a blacksmith and farrier by trade and was certain he could find work in Canada to support his new little family.

Settling in Stormont County, Ontario, Louisa’s step dad found work as a farrier because it was largely a rural area and plenty of horses to shoe. Soon she had a step brother and step sister. Not the same as her baby doll sister that had died but still…. she had little people to nurture and play with.

A tap at the parlour door, brought Louisa back to the present moment. Violet stood in the doorway and hesitated, “Mother, do you have a minute to talk? I need to talk to you alone.” Louisa moved her open Bible from her lap and set it on the table beside her. “I always have time to talk, Violet, what is it you want to talk about? Sit down here and tell me what is on your mind,” Louisa invited.

Violet had trouble finding the words to use. Finally, she blurted out, “I think I am pregnant!” Louisa sat dumbfounded. Nothing would come out. She couldn’t be hearing this correctly. They were staunch Church of England members; they gave their family a loving but firm, strict upbringing. They had taught what was right and what was wrong and just a few months ago, they left no uncertainty of what they thought of Violet considering attending a party with Henry Atkinson.

“Violet, how can this be? We told you what we thought of your suitor. We advised you not to attend the party with him…did you go against our wishes?” Louisa inquired. Louisa and Ned had met Henry a few times and something just didn’t ring true. Ned had heard gossip around the town and wanted to keep Violet and Henry as far apart as possible.

Violet knew she had to tell the truth but she knew her parents would be so disappointed.  “Yes, I accompanied Henry to the Christmas Party. I thought it would be fun. I so wanted to see what it was like in the hotel and what it would feel like to be escorted and have a boyfriend. I want to be normal like other women. I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Violet explained on the verge of tears.

“I know Henry will marry me and be a father to this baby. You will have a grandchild and an heir. We have no descendants. Nobody needs to know that the baby was conceived before the wedding,” Violet continued.

“Henry will never marry you or support this baby,” Louisa told her.

“But Dad married you when you were pregnant!” 

Louisa wasn’t prepared for this bombshell. She had never told her family of the circumstance she found herself in the spring of 1882.

“Mother, I know you were pregnant with Emily Maud Mary by the time you were married. I can do the math, you know.” Violet had never spoken to her mother with this tone or argument. “You were married in 1882 and my sister was born just a few months later the same year. You got Dad to marry you!”

Louisa carefully considered her response to the accusation. No matter what happened, she had to preserve the family and support her daughter.

“Yes, you are correct. I was expecting your sister when we were married. I had worked as a housekeeper for Ned when he was single. Your father’s parents were going back and forth to England on business and Ned was busy as an accountant and photographer and didn’t have time to keep house. I came to work for him and one thing led to another. When I found I was pregnant we planned a small wedding and made ourselves a family,” Louisa justified.  “We have had a very happy successful life and five more children.”

“Well, I can do the same…a small wedding and make myself a family,” retorted Violet.

“My dear child, this is impossible, Henry is already married!” Your father heard the men talking. Henry got a young woman pregnant a few years ago and was forced to marry her. She went back to England and was waiting for Henry to join her. What’s worse is he already had a wife and family that he left in England to come to Quebec. Your dear Henry is a bigamist and you are just another fling.” 

There was no gentle way for Louisa to tell Violet that the father of her baby was a low-life scoundrel and bigamist. 

Violet couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Henry had told her about the family business; he was part of a structural engineering empire. He would show her the world and his family would love her. He didn’t mention two wives and five children and that he was the black sheep of the blacksmith family. How was she so easily fooled? At work he continued to visit her in the office and flirted as usual but she had not shared the news of the baby. Now what could she do?

“When your father comes in, we will discuss this further and he will have suggestions,” Louisa offered.

It had been bad enough telling her mother about the baby, how could she possibly explain this to her dad?

. . .

“We have a situation that we must deal with Edward,” started Louisa later that evening. Fortunately, Emily Maud Mary and Dorothy were both on shift at the hospital where they worked as nurses. Charlie was a country boy at heart and had found work on a farm outside of Montreal and Ralph was away visiting family friends in Vermont. It was just Violet and her parents.

“Violet has found herself in a family way,” started Louisa. Ned’s mouth dropped open and he tried to conceal his disappointment and anger. “She attended the Christmas Party with Henry Atkinson and has found she is pregnant.”

“How can this be? We strictly told you to avoid that man. He is a womanizer, a scoundrel, a liar and a bigamist to name a few character flaws,” her father blurted out. Oh, I know, he is an engineer and from a “good family” but he left his family and his mess when he emigrated. He has two families on the go. He will never have three and he will never be apart of our family. I will pull some strings and see where you can go till this is all over,” her father informed her. He was eighty years old and had been retired for five years but he maintained some contacts at the hospital and could call in a favour.

“Please, don’t tell anyone, not even my sisters and brothers. They will think I am so gullible, so naïve, and so stupid. Can we keep this totally confidential? Can you lie and say I am going away or something? I can’t face anyone and I will never ever tell Henry that he is having a child,” Violet begged.

“I’ll take care of it but I am so disappointed in you. We come from a strong Quaker line, your mother comes from a strict Church of England line, every child of ours was baptized at St. Mark’s Anglican Church in Longueuil. I thought we had raised you better than this,” her father said as he turned and left the room.

Violet bowed her head to hide her tears. Life would never be the same.

 

Edward Alfred

1925

Ned went out for a walk into the chilly night. He needed to clear his head and think about the situation. He had always been a good problem solver but he had never faced this type of problem. When he returned, the house was quiet. Louisa and Violet must have both retired for the night, he concluded.

He sat in his comfortable chair and grabbed his pipe. He drew on his lit pipe and looked around the room. It was always his favourite relaxing spot at the end of the day. There were photos of his entire family. His father, John Charles had been a professional photographer and had a career with William Notman. His father had got him on with Notman as well. He looked at the groupings of

photographs…there was his mother and father, John Charles and Mary Swanwick Barton and all of his siblings. There was his beautiful wife, Louisa Maud Nixon who was also the love of his life. On the other wall above the buffet, was an arrangement of his children…Emily Maud Mary, Charles Edward, Violet May, Dorothy, and Ralph deVernon. Sadly, he never had the chance to photograph Bernard Ivegill. He died before he was a year old. “I wish I had taken a baby picture,” he thought to himself. “He was child number six and we thought probably our last. It took days to come up with a name. I wanted to name him Bernard because there had been a Bernard in each generation. Louisa came up with his middle name ‘Ivegill’ he recalled. Ivegill was the village of our roots in England. We were so proud to have a child named Bernard Ivegill Barton. 

William Notman had taken him on because his father John Charles was working with Notman. He made twenty-four dollars per fortnight apprenticing under Notman. He was only there for four months but he acquired skill and equipment that he was able to use when his own children were born. So many photos and so many memories. He looked sadly at the sailing photos. What a joy sailing had been. There were pictures of his sailing team and there was that picture of his brother John Henry who drowned while sailing. John Henry was just a year younger and they shared a love of sailing. The photos recorded the happy moments of his eighty years but they were also sad reflections.  

He realized he was getting tired. At eighty years, he had accomplished a lot but his biggest accomplishment had been his wife and children. He couldn’t let this situation with Violet ruin his reputation. He recalled a doctor he had worked with that sometimes referred young women to the Misericordia Sisters when they found themselves in trouble. Usually, the nuns looked after all the deliveries but on rare occasion or births with complications, they had to call in the doctor from Alexandra Hospital.  Tomorrow he would look into it.

 

Henry

February 1925

Henry continued to visit the office to look for Violet. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but for some reason Violet was acting cold towards him.  She used to respond to his flirting and charm and would blush like a young school girl. Now he had trouble getting any response. He had enjoyed the Christmas Party with her and thought he wouldn’t mind another night out with her but she kept brushing him off.

When he looked around the corner, Violet’s desk was empty. One of the other employees was in the room and he asked, “Do you know where Violet is today?”

“She gave her notice last week. She is starting a new position. Didn’t she tell you?”

That was odd thought Henry, “Did she say where?”. “No idea, she packed up Friday night and left for good.”  Well thought Henry, our paths will cross and if not, I will visit her at home and see where this new job is.

His own work contract was coming to an end shortly and he would be looking for a new position himself. He had some ideas if he could find some investors. He needed some capital to get started and then life would be a gold mine, literally.

 

 Eva’s Story 

 

1925

On the night that baby Eva was born, she was moved to the nursery in the home for unwed mothers. It was late and Sister Teresa was working alone in the nursery. Strangely, most of the cribs were full. It was a ward and rather drab and stark. Even the nuns dressed in drab grey habits with white aprons. The cribs were lined up along both walls. The head of each crib was against the wall with the foot of the crib directed into the middle of the room. The tile floor was sparkling clean but cold.  There was just enough space for the nuns to walk between cribs. Twelve cribs lined opposite walls and with baby Eva joining the group, there were only two cribs empty and waiting. Eva was the last baby of the day so Sister Patricia popped in the nursery. “Would you like a hand with the ten o’clock feeding? Twenty-two bottles are a lot to handle. You will hardly be finished before it is the two o’clock feeding. Sister Evelyn said she will be along once she finishes her rounds of the new mothers.”

“I could sure use a hand tonight. There are so many new babies and they are not all easy,” Sister Teresa confirmed. “I wonder why there are so many births this week? This is the fourth baby today and three yesterday. I don’t even remember how many were born the day before!”

“Look at your new little one! She is so tiny and fragile and doesn’t seem to fuss. Her eyes are bright as if she can see all around and take it all in. How much did she weigh?” Sister Teresa asked Sister Patricia as she laid Eva in her own little crib.

“She was only five pounds but her colour was good and she seems small and mighty.  I think she is determined to survive this ordeal,” said Sister Patricia who already had a soft spot for the wee baby.

With so many babies in the nursery, there wasn’t time for much physical contact.

It took two or three nuns round the clock and at times, some of the other sisters came to assist. Bathing and feeding and diaper changes didn’t end. There was so little time to sit and rock each child.  Only during their feedings did the baby feel the warmth of another human body.

As was the policy, the baby and mother were separated right at birth. When the unwed mother was admitted to the home, she signed away the right to her baby. If she had wanted to keep the child, she would have delivered at her own home or elsewhere. Some of the mothers were relieved once the baby was delivered and taken away, some fell into depression. The saddest part was that many of the babies didn’t even survive the first year and on occasion the mother didn’t survive the birth. The nuns tried to be compassionate while remaining unattached to either the mother or the baby. Their job was to care for each patient with kindness and respect.

Agnes had seemed resigned to her situation. All she had asked was her baby a little boy or a little girl but she had not begged to hold or suckle the new infant. She had kept to herself the months before the baby’s birth and the nuns knew very little about Agnes. When they had taken the baby away, Agnes had been able to fall into a deep sleep, no surprise after such a long hard labour.

When the last infant had been fed and settled for the night, it was well after midnight. Other than a bit of stirring in two of the cribs, their charges seemed content. “How about a cup of tea before one of the babies’ fusses?”, asked Sister Teresa. She collapsed into the nearest rocking chair, mentally and physically exhausted. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this weary. As always, Sister Patricia perked up and offered to put on the kettle and see if she could find some biscuits. Sister Evelyn spoke up, “I cannot ever remember a day this long. It’s a good thing every day isn’t this way. I don’t think I could keep up. By the time we have our tea, our shift will be over and we can grab some shut eye. Morning always comes too early. Who is on for the two o’clock feeding tonight?” she asked.

When Sister Patricia returned with the tea and a small plate of biscuits, they pulled the three rocking chairs together and for the first time that day, they were able to relax and reflect.

Each nun sat quiet for a few minutes, glad to take their weight off their feet.

Finally, Sister Patricia broke the silence. “Do you ever wonder what becomes of these children? Do you think they go to good homes? Do you think they live happy lives?” 

“I think they are happy while they are here with us,” Sister Teresa replied. She was a natural little mother and enjoyed her work in the nursery. Even though she had taken her vows and had never married or had children, she had been raised with little brothers and sisters and enjoyed doting on them. Working in the nursery was a natural fit.

“Well at least we know that these babies are not sold. I have heard that some homes for unwed mothers sell the babies for profit,” Sister Evelyn said aloud. “Can you imagine our nursery and orphanage as a store? Come choose a baby…any baby. Look, this one is cute…What are you looking for today: a boy or a girl? What is your budget?” Sister Evelyn continued. Hearing Evelyn speak like that was funny. She sounded like an auctioneer, not a nun. But they all knew it really wasn’t funny for the mothers or their infants.

“If that was the case, there must be some who would never be selected. Look at the babies we have that aren’t quite right. Some are weak, some have obvious deformities, some just fail to thrive. No matter how hard we try, some just never make it.” Sister Patricia had a soft spot for all infants and wanted to be able to fix everything. When a baby didn’t survive, she took it personally. 

They were responsible for the babies in the nursery for the first few months of their lives. Some would be adopted as infants to childless couples, but some stayed in the system longer and were moved into the orphanage. The longer they stayed in the system, the less likely they would be adopted.

“Back to the question of what becomes of these babies, I personally pray every day that they will find a loving home. I don’t think I could continue with this work if I thought otherwise,” Sister Teresa shared. “It is hard enough that each baby has been given up by his or her biological mother. I truly hope and pray that they will find a warm and loving family. It wouldn’t be fair if they weren’t wanted anywhere,” Sister Teresa continued.

“As always, we will do our best,” said Sister Evelyn resigned to the situation of the babies and their mothers. “It’s late and we better get some rest. Who knows what tomorrow will bring. A couple of the women seem very uncomfortable and perhaps tomorrow will be just as busy. We will soon be out of cribs so we will either have to double up or shift some to the orphanage. Good night.” Sister Evelyn and Sister Patricia left the nursery but Sister Teresa stayed watching over the children until the shift changed.

. . .

By the time Eva was four months old, she was moved to the orphanage wing of the home. There had been no inquiries regarding adoption so Eva found herself in the toddler room. The children who were under two years of age and hadn’t been adopted, were grouped together. Of the twenty-two babies that were in the nursery the night Eva was born, six had died, nine had been adopted and seven of them joined the toddler room. The nuns were stretched thin caring for infants in one room and the babies in the toddler room. The ritual of feeding, bathing and diaper changes continued but as they grew older, they weren’t as time consuming.

Sister Patricia enjoyed spending her free moments in the toddler room. She would get down on the floor to play with the older ones, stimulate the younger ones and give some cuddles to those needing a bit of human touch. She had a soft spot for the tiny souls who had been given up by their biological mothers. She herself had been given up for adoption but nobody had come looking for her.  She had spent her life in the system so wanted to make these unwanted children feel loved and wanted, even if it was only here in the home. They were loved.

As Eva grew and developed, Sister Patricia noticed how Eva tried to please the sisters. “Have you noticed how obedient Eva is? When you say nap time or bed time, there is no fuss or delay antics. When I suggest a story, she sits quietly waiting for others to settle. She has good listening ears and rarely gives me any difficulty,” Sister Patricia noted. “Too bad, some of the others wouldn’t follow her example,” Sister Agnes commented.

By the time she was almost two years old, Eva enjoyed constructive play when Sister Patricia had time to play. They piled wooden blocks, began learning colours and practiced simple words and phrases. Eva delighted when she learned something new and joyfully clapped her little hands. She was a little perfectionist and had an inquisitive mind. Although the nuns tried to detach themselves from their young charges, Sister Patricia had a warm feeling towards Eva and seemingly, it was reciprocated. 

Eva

1927

In the summer of 1927, just a little more than a month before her second birthday, the minister from St. Marks’s Anglican Church in Longueuil contacted the Misericordia Sisters. “We have a couple who is looking for a little girl around two years of age,” the reverend explained. “They were married in my church in 1922 and have been unable to have a child. They have lost two babies before term and I suggested to them that perhaps a toddler would not be such a reminder of their lost babies.” 

Sister Mary Margaret thoughts turned immediately to little Eva. She had been passed by in favour of other toddlers. She was an easy child, independent and had caused them no trouble in her two short years. “Let me talk to the other sisters. I am sure we have a child that would be perfect for them. You can invite your couple to come here or we could arrange a meeting at your church,” Sister Mary Margaret suggested. 

“Perhaps, meeting at St. Mark’s would work best. Could we try the end of the week?” asked the minister. “I don’t usually divulge too much information and have not arranged very many adoptions, but the wife is distraught.  Marya emigrated to Quebec from Brooklyn, New York. Her family operated a Jewish bakery. Her husband, Marcin arrived from Europe in 1913. They were married in 1922 and the five years of marriage have produced no children. I know they would provide a good home to a youngster,” he continued.

. . .

Sister Mary Margaret found Sister Teresa and Sister Patricia in the toddler room. “I have some very good news,” she began, “there is a couple who would like to adopt Eva.” Sister Patricia composed herself to keep from tears, “That is good news? I have grown to love her. I know we are not to become attached but she has been a joy to me each day. I will miss her terribly.” 

“Yes, we will miss her,” said Sister Teresa “but that is our purpose…to have these children placed in loving homes.” 

On Friday morning, Eva was bathed and dressed in her finest dress which was her only dress. Her curly tresses were combed into ringlets and a little bonnet was placed on her curls. Sister Patricia carefully packed a few wooden blocks, a rag doll and a small flannelette comfort blanket. She could barely see through her tears but knew it was for the best. She lifted Eva and sat her in the rocking chair on her lap. “My sweet Eva Agnes Teresa, I will miss you so much. You be a good girl for your new Mom and Dad. You are going to have a real home now!” Sister Patricia gave the toddler a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek and watched her take the hand of Sister Mary Margaret and head towards the door.

. . .

Sister Mary Margaret and Eva were greeted at the door by the minister who had visited the home earlier in the week.  Sitting quietly near the front of the church was a young couple whispering between themselves. Making their way to the front of the church, the three of them approached Mr. and Mrs. Tomaszewski. Marya felt the tears come to her eyes as she saw the little girl standing timidly holding onto the nun’s hand. “Ahhh, come to me,” Marya coaxed. Eva hesitated and looked to Sister Mary Margaret. “It’s okay, go to her.” 

“Let me introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Tomaszewski,” the minister said to Sister Mary Margaret. “Sister Mary Margaret has been in charge of Eva, since the day she was born. The child has been cared for and loved by the sisters. She is obedient, bright and happy. I think she will adapt well to a family situation. As you mentioned to me earlier, you would like to have the child baptized should you decide to adopt her?” “Yes, definitely,” replied Marcin Tomaszewski.

“Well, I would be happy to oblige you today if this child is to be adopted by you. All we need to do is complete a little paper work for the church record.”

And so it was that Eva was baptized in the same church that her birth mother, Violet had been baptized forty years prior. Edward and Louisa had been married in the church in 1882, Marya and Marcin had been married in the same church in 1922. The birth family, the adoptive family and the minister were unaware of the connection that bound them.

 

 Henry

1925-1943

Just before Valentine’s Day, Henry was thinking warm thoughts of Violet. Maybe she would like a romantic night out to celebrate with him. He hadn’t been able to track her new job so decided to head to her home on Sherbrooke Street. “Too bad she still lives with her parents,” he thought.  “They don’t seem to approve of me.”

When he showed up at the Barton home, Edward opened to his knock. “And what can I do for you, Mr. Atkinson?” he asked gruffly. “I was wondering if Violet would be in tonight? I have been dropping round the office but her colleague told me she has taken a new position. Could you be so kind as to tell me where she is working?” Henry asked.

“I’m afraid you cannot see Violet; she has taken a position in England. She was looking for a change and some independence. A cousin has found her a job in an office and she will get to know her English relatives. She left a week ago and we are not certain when or if she will return. She was quite excited about a change in employment.”

A bit deflated, Henry turned and left. “Well onto new ventures,” he thought.

His work with the Quebec Bridge was long completed and engineering contracts were not holding his interest longer than any one woman held his interest.

He heard talk of gold in Quebec but couldn’t finance a mine. With his expertise as a civil engineer maybe he could still strike it rich, he thought. His brother who had taken over his father’s humble blacksmith shop had built a comprehensive steelwork fabrication empire. Henry had nothing…no family, no wife, no money and he was already in midlife. He gathered a team consisting of a merchant, an accountant, a mining consultant and himself as a civil engineer. They were incorporated as Jubilee Gold Exploration and a patent was issued by the Lieutenant Governor of Quebec. Throughout the 1930’s, he incorporated various teams of experts and started Centremaque Gold Mines, West Shore Gold Mines and other mines in Quebec. He dreamed big but was unable to strike gold.

In March of 1943, Henry Octavius Atkinson died alone at the age of 56. Two wives and five daughters were in England. He had not supported either wife or any of his five daughters. His sixth daughter was born to Violet Barton without his knowledge. He was buried in an unmarked grave in Mount Royale Cemetery, penniless and no family.

 

Eva’s Story

1927

Marcin turned the key in the lock and opened the door to the second-floor apartment. Turning around, he picked up the toddler and carried her into the small apartment. “Welcome home, Eva,” he said with his heavy Polish accent. “This is your new home and we are your new family. Come, I will show you your new room,” he continued. On the bed was her familiar rag doll tucked under Eva’s comfort blanket. On the windowsill, the wooden building blocks were stacked. Sister Patricia’s loving gesture gave a bit of security to the child. Eva hesitated and walked towards her doll. There were no other children here and it was so quiet, not at all what she was used to. She clung to her doll as Marya took her hand and led her to the small living room and sat with her on the chesterfield. “Do you like stories, Eva? I bought ‘The Velveteen Rabbit’ for us to read together,” Marya started. “We can read ‘Winnie the Pooh’, we can sing, we can play but first we must eat!”

Everything was new and different. The home, the people and the food were unfamiliar and the child hesitated in her new surroundings. Day by day, she was less reserved and found a happy contentment as she explored her home and family.

Marya and Marcin finally had the family they had been dreaming of…a little daughter to call their own. A small apartment in Montreal became home for the three of them but then the unbelievable happened.  Just weeks after the adoption, Marcin died suddenly on September 6, 1927 and Marya found herself a single mother with a two-year-old.

. . .

Marya, or Mary once she dropped the ‘a’, was a well-endowed woman with a big personality. Her clothes were fine and expensive, her coats trimmed with fur and she wore hats that matched her expensive coats. Although she belonged to the church in Longueuil, the field of single men in the church was too small. She got into the habit of leaving Eva with a young couple in the same apartment building and broadened her search several evenings each week.

In the 1920s Montreal had become a permanent home to travelling American musicians. The city had a reputation for good times.  Alcohol could be bought cheaply and openly. People were eager to enjoy life following the First World War and there was no shortage of booze, flappers and jazz.

It didn’t take long for Mary to meet Adam Wysogland, an emigrant from Poland and a gold miner. He had landed in Quebec hoping to find work in mining but many of the upstart mines did not strike a gold vein. He had heard that Timmins and South Porcupine had up and running mines. The Hollinger had been running since 1907 and housing was built for miners and their families. After a few short months of courtship, Adam proposed marriage and a move to South Porcupine to which Mary eagerly agreed. Finally, Eva had a real family and stability. 

With Eva in tow, the newlyweds boarded the train for South Porcupine. 

The discovery of gold in the Timmins and South Porcupine area had driven settlement in the area. The housing they saw as they approached South Porcupine was nothing more than shacks covered in black tar paper with flat roofs. They had been quickly constructed and built close together for the thousands of workers coming from all parts of Canada and other parts of the world.  The jobs were plentiful for miners, loggers, woodcutters, cooks. There were jobs for everyone regardless of nationality or language spoken. 

Mary looked at Adam and asked, “What have we gotten ourselves into? These houses are not really houses; they are shacks! Look! They don’t even have running water or indoor plumbing! The women are carrying pails of water from a community tap.” 

“Yes, but it is shelter. Some are living in tents near the mines just so they can work! Work is plentiful and it won’t be long till we are on our own feet and can buy something of our own,” Adam said confidently.

When the train pulled into the station and the little family disembarked, Adam asked the station master where the mine office was located.  “Well which mine office do you mean? There is the Hollinger, the Dome and the McIntyre all up and running and all are hiring,” the station master informed him. “Which is the closest for I have a two-year-old and my wife with me?” Adam replied.

“Then best you try the Dome office; it is about a half hour walk from here.”

Adam, Mary and Eva made their way to the mine office carrying their meagre possessions. Adam joined the line of men speaking in various tongues while Mary and Eva rested on a bench outside.

“Are you hiring underground miners?” Adam asked when it was his turn. “Yes, we are hiring all positions. Underground is an eight-hour shift and pays a premium because there is more danger to those working underground. It pays $4.80 per day for the eight-hour shift.” “What would I need for equipment?” asked Adam. “Well… coveralls, boots, gloves are about all. We don’t require hard hats or safety boots. We don’t provide safety gear,” was the answer. 

“What about living accommodations? I have my wife and a two-year-old.”

“Here is a list of rooming houses, most are full but you can try them and see if they have room for a family of three. Usually, they provide a bed, laundry and meals. Expect to pay a dollar a day or maybe a bit more in your situation. There aren’t a lot of families in rooming houses.” The desk clerk for the Dome mine was quite helpful.

By nightfall, they secured a small room in a rooming house. Adam could walk to the mine in less than a half hour and could begin work immediately. Their room was cramped but it was enough for the time being. Mary could help with the cooking and laundry to offset the cost of her keep. 

For the first while, the rooming house was adequate but as Eva grew, their quarters were too cramped. Mary had not minded the cooking and cleaning and laundry but they needed more space. By the time Eva was four years old, Mary broached the subject with Adam, “What if we ran our own rooming house? I am already doing the work of a rooming house, but it would be our house; we would collect the room and board from the miners. Business is booming here and people are transient and not looking for permanent houses, I know we could make money and I know I can do the work,” Mary suggested. 

 

After a year of running their own boarding house, Mary realized it was a lot of work for her and a five-year-old child. One night when Adam returned from work and was enjoying his dinner, Mary broached the subject of adopting another child. “Maybe we could adopt a little boy to help Eva and I with the boarding house. A little boy would be stronger for carrying wood and water. We could use the help and we could provide a good home for another child,” she reasoned.

Adam being easy going and always wanting to please his wife agreed to her plan. A little nine-year-old boy, four years older than Eva was adopted through a private adoption.

For several years, Adam carried out his work at the mine, Mary operated the rooming house and Eva and her adopted brother, Joseph grew up in surroundings of transient and temporary boarders of all nationalities looking to make their living with jobs in the mines. When the depression arrived, the demand for gold increased because there was little faith in paper currency. Mary counted on Eva and Joseph to help with cooking, laundry and bedding, carrying water and firewood and all tasks of the rooming house. Attending school was just a few hours out of the daily work schedule, yet Eva excelled in academics.

In 1938, Eva was thirteen when her father contracted tuberculosis and was taken to a sanatorium.  Life had never been easy but it was suddenly more difficult. Her mother, Mary was without his income and depended on the boarding house to keep life afloat. She relied on Eva and Joseph to work like adults in addition to attending school.

 In 1939, Joseph had had enough. “I am just a slave to you, Mother. I don’t want to spend my life working in a boarding house. I am going to enlist in the war. I am done here!” 

Adam died the following year in Toronto in a sanitorium and Joseph had enlisted in the army and did not communicate with his adoptive family. Eva and her mother kept the boarding house running. 

In April, 1942, Eva married a miner who had travelled from Wyman, Quebec to

South Porcupine searching for work as an underground miner. The bride was seventeen and the groom nineteen. A small board and batten cabin became home. By January, Eva was expecting her own baby.

. . .

In July, 1943 the sirens sounded. Residents in mining towns recognized a siren as communication that something had happened at one of the mines. This time, there had been a collapse underground at the Dome mine. Several hundred miners were trapped underground and their lives lost. After fifteen months of marriage, Eva was seven months pregnant and found herself a widow. Unable to support herself and a baby, she moved back to the rooming house.

 

Violet

1928

After two and a half lonely years in England, Violet was longing for home. Never in her life had she felt so alone or isolated. Her clerking job was just a job and she was afraid to become friendly with co-workers in case they asked too many questions. Her apartment was cold and lonely; she had brought no personal touches with her so it was nothing more than a place to eat and sleep. Her mother and siblings wrote occasional letters of the things going on at home but she missed the warmth her family had always provided. Her cousins were so distantly removed that she had very little in common. Everyone remembered her grandparents and had lots of stories about them but beyond that, they knew so little of each other or of Canada.

Even Charles, her brother, or Charlie as she liked to call him, wrote three or four letters in the years she was away. He had found his way to Regina and was working on a farm. He too was away from family so he found writing letters was a connection to his family.

Violet wondered why her brothers had been so taken with farming? Her father was an accountant and photographer. Her grandfather, John Charles Barton had been an accountant, a photographer and an entrepreneur. He was involved with Omnibus, a partner in Valleyfield Peat Coal Company, and land developer. Yet her brothers loved farm life and working on farms. Maybe the visits to see her grandmother and grandfather Jones each summer had instilled a love of farming. It sure didn’t come from her father or mother. Violet and her sisters loved summer vacations at Idlewylde and resort living, not farm life.

Charles always wrote interesting stories in his letters. He was very observant and jotted down his thoughts on everyday life and farm experiences. He had always kept a pocket inkwell so he could write in his journal at the end of the day and could make life come alive for Violet. In his last letter he told her that their brother Ralph had come from Montreal to Regina to visit. Ralph had always enjoyed summer jobs on farms in Quebec but he had taken the train across country to stay with Charlie and help him out. She missed her brothers dreadfully.

But it was her mother and sisters she wanted to see. She could just imagine them at home cooking and sewing and sharing stories of their day. Emily Maud Mary and Dorothy were both nurses and always seemed to have more interesting stories than she had of her office work. They loved to laugh as they sat around the dinner table or as they knit the evenings away in the parlour. Her mother was strict but she enjoyed time with her daughters. There was always a church bazaar to prepare for or a sick neighbour or friend to cook for. Her mother had instilled community service into her and her sisters; it was the work of the church, she always said.

More than anything she shared everything with her sisters; they were so close. Yet she had deceived them…. she could never ever share her secret of why she went away. She would take that secret to the grave.

At the end of two and a half years, Violet wrote home:

March, 1928

Dear Mother, Mary and Dora,

I have given my job a good try and I appreciate the opportunity I have had to work and travel and meet my English cousins, but I am dreadfully homesick. I miss all of you so much and I feel so alone here. I have booked my passage and shall arrive in April. I can’t wait to catch up on the news and see everyone. I will seek a job when I get home and resettle. If all goes well, I shall be home early April. I cannot wait to see you.

 Love, Violet

 

. . .

Violet hesitated before opening the door to their home. She truly was happy for the first time in over two years. If she could only turn back time, none of this would have happened. She had got caught up in the moment back in 1924 and it had caused her a lot of grief. Maybe she would have made a good mother; she loved children but a child out of wedlock would never be welcomed into her family. “I wish I had never met Henry Atkinson,” she thought. 

When she opened the door, her sisters came running and the three of them were laughing and hugging and crying and talking all at the same time. Oh, how she had missed them! After a few moments, Violet asked, “Where is Mother?”  “Oh, she is in the parlour in her usual chair and has been eagerly awaiting your return,” Dora told her. “She has aged quite a bit since you went away and seems so tired most days. She still likes to read and knit but since Father died, she is hardly the same person.” 

Violet reflected back to the time just after the birth of the baby when she had been so devastated at the news of her Father’s death. Did the shock of her being pregnant have anything to do with it, she wondered? Both parents had been so disappointed yet her sisters suspected nothing.

April, May and June were such happy times for the three sisters and their mother. So many stories to catch up on, evenings were spent quilting and knitting and as the weather turned warmer, they walked and talked, had picnics and visited old friends and neighbours. With both brothers still in Regina, it was four women making up for lost time.

On the first of July, the sisters were enjoying tea and toast and a leisurely breakfast. Emily Maud Mary and Dorothy both had the day off and were not going into the hospital; Violet had not actively looked for employment since her return from England. She was enjoying just being there together with her family once again.

 “Strange that Mom hasn’t come down for breakfast yet. She sleeps a little later these days but maybe we should check on her,” Dorothy suggested. 

So it was that Louisa had enjoyed her last days on earth with her daughters. It was July 1^st, 1928.

 Eva

1943-1945

A few weeks after Eva delivered her baby, she approached her mother. “I think I would like to go south and work in airplane manufacturing while the war goes on. I could make good money and women are a big part of the workforce. Would you consider keeping the baby if I applied for work?” “I don’t have a husband to support us and I need to find work that pays well,” she continued. Eva was serious about looking after herself and her baby daughter.

“Women make up sixty five percent of the work force. There are already 310,000 women working to produce tanks, ships and airplanes. I would be another ‘Rosie.’ Women have smaller hands and manual dexterity and are very suited to this work. I could share housing with some of the other women and save some money and send you some to help pay for the baby’s expense,” Eva told her mother knowing that talk of money would sway her mother’s decision. 

It was agreed that ‘Grannie’ would care for the baby while Eva went south to work.

 

Violet

1930-1960

When Louisa passed in 1928, the three sisters found themselves alone for the first time since they were born. Violet had spent the two and a half years in England following the birth of her baby, but the Barton family had always lived under the same roof. Their father Edward was always proud that his three daughters had been successful in their careers; Emily Maud Mary, or Mary as she preferred to be called, was a nurse in Montreal. Violet had more of a business mind like her father and grandfather and choose a vocation of bookkeeping. Dorothy, or Dora as they called her, followed her older sister into the field of nursing. The boys liked farming and found labourer jobs easily. When the depression arrived, they could always find room and board in exchange for farm labour. Charles had returned from Regina but moved onto Eddystone, Ontario to work on a farm during the depression years.

Violet settled into her mother’s former role as housekeeper and enjoyed keeping house for her two sisters and preparing meals to enjoy together when they returned from their hospital shifts. She had peace and quiet during the day and was able to avoid questions about where she had been or the reasons behind leaving. She was forty-four years old but was quite content keeping house rather than searching for an office job. The evenings were like old times gathered together.

 One evening as they mended their uniforms and stockings, Violet asked, “Do you think this house is too big for just the three of us? We used to have the boys and Mother and Father. It seems more than we need now.”

 “It certainly seems empty these days. I noticed a smaller house on Old Orchard Avenue and it is about the same distance to the hospital,” Mary shared. Mary was already fifty years old and felt as the eldest, she should be in charge of decisions.

The three sisters sat thinking quietly. The house held so many memories. They had always lived together but it was large and quiet now with both parents dead and the boys working away. “Maybe we should find something smaller. On the other hand, maybe the boys will come home someday and we will need this space,” Mary thought aloud.

“Maybe I will still get married,” Dora wished. She was forty-two but kept a buried hope that maybe someday she would find someone. “Mary, why did you not have a beau or suitors? Didn’t you ever want to get married?” Dora inquired.

 “No, not I. I have always loved being a nurse. I feel like I am in service to others and really helping where I can help. If I married, I would have had to give up my career,” Mary answered.

“What about you Violet?” Dora asked thinking romance was an intriguing subject. “Wouldn’t you have enjoyed married life more than bookkeeping? You probably could have married that man that worked for Quebec Bridge. He seemed really interested in you! Mother and Father didn’t seem to like him but he sure seemed fond of you. What was his name…. something like Anderson or Atkinson or something on those lines? What was it?” Dora kept trying to remember his name.  “I don’t remember his name,” lied Violet.  “I would never want to be married. There is no man as kind and good as our father.  Nobody could ever measure up.” The conversation was getting too personal and uncomfortable. Violet wanted to forget that part of life. She wanted to forget that Henry Atkinson ever lived. “Well, I guess this old spinster is going to bed, good night,” Violet almost whispered as she left the parlour.

. . .

Soon enough, the routine of the sisters continued from a small house on Orchard Avenue. Mary and Dora continued nursing at the hospital and Violet kept house for them. Charles was happy to be working in the Eddystone and Grafton area. When Ralph returned from Regina, he found work on farms around Montreal but stayed with his sisters when he had time off. He had bought a car and his visits were as frequent as his days off. He was the baby of the family, almost ten years younger than Mary, and his sisters loved to have him home. In November of 1937, Mary, Violet and Dora waited for dinner. Ralph was late. Ralph was never late. 

“This is so out of character for Ralph. He loves to get home for Saturday night dinner and have the full day with us on Sunday,” Mary thought. Later that evening, a knock on the door startled the sisters. Ralph had never knocked. Why would he knock today? Mary opened the door to the Surete du Quebec. “There has been an accident.”

Their baby brother Ralph, just thirty-seven years old, had been killed in a vehicle accident. There was nothing they could do but plan a funeral.

 

Charles 

Later Years

It was Sunday morning and Charles sat on the veranda with his pipe and journal. He chuckled to himself that Sunday was the best day of the week. The sun was shining in and warming the area nicely. He watched his three sisters cross the road, walk through the park and across Lac Brome Museum grounds and up the steps of St. Paul’s Anglican Church. They never missed a Sunday morning service and he enjoyed the time to himself while they were at church. He had never been a regular church goer. His parents had been staunch church members but he had never enjoyed church. 

When this little house came up for sale, Mary, Violet and Dora were excited to convince him that a move would be good for all of them.  They had lived over on Davignon Avenue since retirement but the Lakeside Home was across the road from the church and there was the lake in the back yard. Mind you, he thought, you had to get across a swamp to get to the lake! In fact, if you didn’t know there was a lake behind the house, you would wonder why it was called Lakeside.

He had missed his sisters all the years he was away working on farms. In his youth, he had worked around Montreal, then he went to Regina and when the depression came, he was glad for a job in Eddystone, Ontario. Working with Ralph in Regina had been the best years of his life. They both loved farming and animal husbandry. It still caused sadness when he thought of Ralph being killed in 1937 in that new car of his. He wanted to be there for his sisters, but he was still working away from home. 

He envied how close Mary, Violet and Dora were. Three spinsters who shared everything. It seemed unnatural that they were so close. Really, the Bartons’ had always been a close family but the three sisters had always lived together and helped each other out. Their bond was so strong. They were never apart except when Violet tried a job in England. He was in Regina at the time and recalled how homesick Violet was for her sisters and family. He tried to write regularly to brighten her days. It wasn’t long before she moved back home. England wasn’t for her. They were so happy when she returned and could live together once again. They were so close they knew what each other was thinking…no secrets between those women! He was almost a fifth wheel.

Violet was very happy once they made the move to Knowlton. St. Paul’s Church was the centre of her life. She had meetings several nights of the week with the Women’s groups. She held an executive position and was always making things for the bazaar, baking for shut-ins, visiting the sick and teaching Sunday School. She loved the little children in her class. She would have made a great mother Charles thought… if she had only found a mate. She is so good with kids! And musical…the three of them. There was always choir practice and performances. They played piano and organ for the Sunday Service and filled in at other churches when they were needed.  Yes, he was lucky to have his sisters. 

His sister Mary, had always been like a second mother to him. She looked out for him, always caused him to stop and think before he did anything or before he moved around for jobs. She was the steady one.

Violet and he had a comfortable relationship. They were both a bit quiet and sometimes he looked at her and wondered where her mind was. She seemed sad and distant at times. He knew she didn’t like England or being away from the family. He had made effort to send her letters with stories of his life working on farms. Even years after her return from England, he often caught her daydreaming with a far away sad look on her face.

Dora, the youngest, could be silly. She was a dreamer and a romantic. Too bad she had never found the right man.  Of all the siblings, she seemed the most likely to marry and leave her profession. He was sure she was a good nurse but he was also sure she could give it up for a family of her own.

It was odd that none of them had married including himself. They had always been happy to just be together. 

The hour to himself passed quickly as he reflected on life and jotted a few notes in his journal. He set his pipe aside, put the lid on his pocket inkwell and watched his three sisters walk arm in arm across the park towards home. He couldn’t help but smile as they approached… life is good!

    

Dear Ancestor

“Your tombstone stands among the rest

Neglected and alone.

The name and date are chiseled out

On polished marble stone.

It reaches out to all who care

It is too late to mourn.

 

You did not know that I exist

You died and I was born.

Yet each of us are cells of you

In flesh and blood and bone.

Our blood contracts and beats a pulse

Entirely not our own.

 

Dear Ancestor, the place you filled

One hundred years ago

Spreads out among the ones you left

Who would have loved you so.

I wonder how you lived and loved

I wonder if you knew,

That someday I would find this spot

And come to visit you.”

-Walter Butler Palmer-

May 26,2023

Knowlton Cemetery

 

 

 

On a beautiful spring day, we drove to Knowlton in search of the cemetery. Between newspaper obituaries and Find a Grave.com, the cemetery was easily located. Separating, we divided the cemetery and walked row by row looking for a stone marked Barton. In death, as in life, the four siblings were laid to rest together.

Violet took her secret to her grave, not knowing that one day, someone would come looking for her. One hundred years ago, she gave up a tiny baby thinking that her secret was safe. That baby survived, grew up, married had children and gave Violet Barton over thirty descendants.

 

Eva

The Secret Keeper

2015

Eva’s four grown daughters sat on the bench by the water. It had been a hard visit at the retirement home. It was nice to sit in the sun watching boats leave the marina while they contemplated the situation. Families picnicked, young children splashed in the water, squeals of joy sounded from the playground. 

The sisters faced the reality that their mother was failing. She wouldn’t be allowed to stay in the retirement residence much longer. The dementia was interfering with her judgement and the ability to take care of her own needs. The decline had started in 2010 but had been so subtle at first. It was easy to think it was just old age or forgetfulness but thinking back they recalled how she started to slip the day her third daughter died suddenly. It was as if a mini stroke had taken place and she was unable to understand that her daughter had passed.

The eldest, who was a half sister, suddenly asked, “Did any of you know that my father was alive until 1981? Remember when Mom was so sick last winter? I think she thought she was dying. She took a pen and paper and wrote me a letter. She said my father had been alive all those years and she had never told me. I am so hurt and so mad that she kept this from me! I could have known my father.”

“She told us that your father died before you were born. She told us how tragic it was to hear the sirens and then get word that he was killed down in the mine. She was left a widow and it was just two months before you were due. She has told us that story her entire life!” the youngest sister offered. “She managed to raise you as a single mother for thirteen years and was proud of it. Until she met Dad and had the rest of us, she managed a job, daycare and raising you. Why would she lie or keep this a secret?”

“When did all of you find out that she was adopted?” I asked. “When I was a young child, I kept asking why she didn’t look like her mother. Grannie was so heavy and round. Mom was so slight and petite. I asked her how that could be, but she never let on that Grannie was her adopted mother. I was probably fifty-five years old before she told me she was adopted,” I said.

“I suspect she has kept a lot of secrets. She shares what she wants to share and keeps a lot of it very private and hidden away,” I continued. “Remember she said her brother went to war? He had had all he could take working in the boarding house and enlisted in the army? Well, we went to the Books of Remembrance

 in Ottawa to search for his name and it wasn’t listed. We asked the volunteer where else to look for information and we were told if his name wasn’t in the Book of Remembrance, he didn’t die in the war. Maybe he didn’t even go to war. Why would she make that up? I have always wondered.”

“After the trip to Ottawa, I went to Mom and told her I had some really good news…her brother didn’t die in the war! He is alive somewhere and we can find him. She got so mad at me; I dropped the subject and never mentioned it again. What could she be hiding?” I asked my sisters.

I continued with the thoughts that churned in my head. “I did some sleuthing and found her brother is living in Quebec. He raised a family and has three sons…Mom’s nephews. I reached out to ask them about their father, Mom’s  brother, and all I got in terms of an answer was ‘you wouldn’t want to know.’ I wonder what they mean and what are they hiding?” 

In the following months, I searched for some answers about Mom’s teenage marriage. One day in a phone call with my half sister, I casually mentioned, “I found an interesting article in the newspaper about your father, actually. Your father, Mom’s first husband was a bigamist. He married Mom in 1942 and then married a woman in Shawville a couple years later. He was never killed in a mining accident. He left and married someone else before you were born. I guess Mom didn’t want to tell anyone what had happened.”

“On her second marriage certificate dated June 11, 1955, there is an official stamp: ‘Divorced, May 1955.’ Basically, your father married mom, disappeared after a mining accident, married somebody else, was found out and jailed, and then divorced Mom a month before she married Dad in 1955. I wonder what other secrets she has?” I continued. “So much of her life doesn’t make sense or add up. It is just a great big puzzle.”

In the following years, the dementia advanced and there were no answers to questions we had about her earlier life. Seemingly, she lived a happy life from 1955 after she married for the second time until the day she passed. Life was full and good and revolved around her family, farm and church. 

Like her biological mother Violet, Eva took her own secrets to the grave.

 

My Story

2025

My mother was Eva Agnes Teresa Unknown Birthname. She believed she was born September 14, 1925 in Montreal Quebec. She never had a birth certificate to prove her birth. Because of this, she could not get a driver’s license, nor vote in municipal, provincial or federal elections. When OHIP was rolled out, she was able to get an OHIP card but it was not recognized as official identification even when the red and white card was changed to a photo OHIP card. She lived ninety-three years without ID.

She also believed she was adopted when she was about two years old or a little more. She could remember nuns and thought it might have been an orphanage she was in. She remembered a priest or minister and a long train ride north to Timmins Ontario.

She loved to tell stories of her young life in a boarding house: the hard work, the rough living environment and the hardships of the boarders and miners. But she was a real secret keeper.

She had a keen interest in the genealogy of my father but not her own story. With a stamp, air mail paper and a money order, she gathered information from England with the help of researchers. Through paid research, family interviews and collections of family photos, she was able to go back into the 1700s on my father’s side. 

After eighty years of living, she expressed a desire to find out who her biological parents were and why she was given up for adoption. She attempted to find her birth parents through school records to no avail. She contacted orphanages in Montreal but the institutions either had sealed records or no records. She passed away in 2019 without the answers she sought.

As a covid project, I took a DNA test and the results came back just as the first major lockdown occurred. High on the shared matches list, a name of a first cousin appeared who was not listed in my family tree. He lived in England and had a very small tree but it was enough information to begin the search of Mom’s biological family. My match had a sister who was a family historian and she was very open and helpful with my search.  She and her brother and sister and I shared a grandfather…Henry Octavius Atkinson. Their grandmother was the young sixteen-year-old Rose. Through her research, she found that Rose was Henry’s second wife. Wife number one had been left in England with three daughters when he came to work on the Quebec Bridge.

Unknown to my mother, she had five half sisters in England; three were half sisters from marriage number one of Henry and Jessie and two were half sisters from the second marriage of Henry and Rose.

Finding my mother’s birth mother was a greater challenge. It took a DNA test of my half sister to connect to the lineage of Louisa Maud Nixon and Edward Alfred Barton. With one hundred percent certainty, we are of that line. The reality is I cannot ascertain whether Emily Maud Mary, Violet or Dorothy was the birth mother. Because Violet lived to the same age as my mother Eva, and because they had similar interests, I think quite likely Violet was the birth mother. But it may have been one of the other sisters.

Finding information about the Barton Family was relatively easy. Edward Alfred was well documented as he was listed as ‘Men of Canada 1901-02’ in a book by

John A. Cooper. Among his accomplishments, photography under the direction of

William Notman was noted. The William Notman Collection is displayed at McCord Museum in Montreal. Many of his works were on the museum website so I was able to obtain photos of some of the family members.

I contacted the archivist for further information and she told me there were no descendants of Edward Alfred Barton. Edward had fathered six children but none of them married I was told.  I explained that I was a descendant as my mother was his grandchild given up for adoption in 1925. The archivist and a volunteer worked tirelessly to find and send me information on the family. And it was good information!

‘BaNQ Numerique’ was a term that came up over and over. It is a collection of archives in Quebec. Scanning paper by paper, I traced the steps of Emily Maud Mary, Violet, Dorothy, Charles and Ralph. Ralph was buried with baby Bernard and the parents Edward and Louisa in Mount Royal Cemetery. In retirement, the four living siblings settled in Knowlton Quebec and were often mentioned in the local news and social pages. In weekly news, the sisters were regularly connected to St. Paul’s Anglican Church in Knowlton and were very active members. I contacted the church secretary seeking further information and photos of the sisters. The church secretary was sympathetic to my cause as she, herself, had been adopted. She knew an elderly couple who were current members of the church and who had been raised in that church as children.

We travelled to Knowlton to meet with them, visit the church and the cemetery. The elderly couple had been young Sunday School children and had been in the class taught by the Barton sisters. They remembered the sisters as very private, generous but kind. They pointed out the pew where the sisters sat each Sunday. At that moment, ancestry became real.

If there is a heaven, I hope my mother has been able to sort out her biological family.

 I hope that what I have found would have pleased her.