It Happened in the Highlands

by May McGoldrick

  Passing the fields that Dermot’s aging uncle—known to all as “the Squire”—had designated as his golfing links, he soon reached the house. As he rode by the courtyard formed by two wings extending out from the main section of the building, he saw a number of patients and handlers taking advantage of the sun. The ground floor of a north annex, built by the army as a barracks during the campaigns to subdue the Highlands, now served as the ward for patients they were already treating.

  Dismounting by the stables, Wynne turned at the sound of a shout coming from the direction of the kitchen gardens.

  “Captain!”

  He shielded his eyes as he looked toward the voice. With his bald head shining, Hamish was stomping toward him, hauling a scowling ten-year-old boy along by the collar.

  This certainly didn’t bode well, Wynne thought, peering at his son’s face as the two approached. Cuffe was sporting a welt over one eye, a bloodied nose, a swollen lower lip, and a torn shirt beneath his waistcoat and dirt-stained russet jacket.

  Another fight. The lad had only been in Scotland for a month, and this was his fourth skirmish. Cuffe was living up to the warning his Jamaican grandmother sent when she’d written that she could no longer keep him.

  Wynne knew nothing about raising a child, but he’d enlisted the aid of others to assist him. Cameron, the purser on his ship and now the bookkeeper at the Abbey, was to begin teaching the lad what he’d be learning in school. Hamish, lead man on the farms, was to instruct the boy about the practical side of managing the land, an education invaluable for a future landowner.

  As post captain in the Royal Navy, Wynne had commanded a number of vessels and hundreds of men during his career. Lads younger than his son served aboard ship, and they all needed time to adjust to the life. He admired the ten-year-old’s independent spirit, but Cuffe was beginning to worry him.

  Wynne handed the reins to a stable hand as the two drew near.

  “He’s done it this time, Captain,” the farm manager huffed. “This scoundrel of yers.”

  Hamish was known both for his patience and his stoical acceptance of the trials of farming in the Highlands. Whatever Cuffe had done now, it clearly had been enough to push the Highlander beyond his limits.

  “What have you done, lad?” Wynne asked.

  Thin but strong, with a ramrod-straight back, his son gazed steadily at the ground in front of him, his curly, collar-length brown hair falling partially across his battered face. He never looked Wynne in the eye or spoke to him—acts of rebellion, he supposed—but the boy would eventually come around. He had to.

  “I’ll tell ye, Captain,” Hamish snapped, not waiting. “This loon of yers has turned the pigs out in the kitchen gardens.”

  Pigs in the garden. That was a first. He doubted the pigs did this damage to his face.

  “Explain yourself,” he ordered.

  Cuffe’s chin lifted and his deep brown eyes stared off at the mountains. He showed no hint of fear and certainly no suggestion of responding.

  “I told the young miscreant to oversee the feeding of the pigs while I got ready for us to go out to the west farms. Next thing I knew, the porkers are running amok, the house is in an uproar, and Cook is rampaging, about as wild as I’ve ever seen her. Threatened to put yer son out for the faeries.”

  “How did he get the bruises on his face?”

  “A fight, Captain.” Hamish shook his head. “By the time we got the pigs back in their pens, we heard squalling so loud I thought the Bean Nighe—the demon washerwoman herself—was carrying off a bairn. Turned out yer lad was giving three of the farm lads a beating.”

  Looking at the injuries, Wynne wondered how bad the others must look.

  “And two of them bigger than this one,” the Highlander asserted. “Now, I know lads will scuffle from time to time, but we can’t have the hospital governor’s son beating up the very farm workers he’s supposed to be overseeing.”

  There was no point in demanding answers. Wynne was well accustomed to the vow of silence Cuffe had obviously taken when it came to communicating with him. Over the past month, Wynne had managed the disciplining of the boy himself, but perhaps the chores he’d been assigning were not tough enough.

  “I’ll leave the issue of punishment for this infraction to you, Hamish.”

  Cuffe’s face turned a shade darker, but he refused to look at Wynne.

  “Take him,” he ordered the Highlander. “My son needs to understand that if he refuses to present a reasonable defense for his actions, there are consequences to be paid.”

  The farm manager led Cuffe off, muttering about mucking shite out of the stables. According to Dermot, Hamish believed that tough, physical labor was the best way to teach and discipline, and maintain self-respect.

  Walking along the side of the building toward the north annex, Wynne tried to remember what he’d been like at that age. As a second son, he’d endured the dreary routine of tutors at home while his older brother was away at Eton, and those men had never spared the rod in teaching him discipline. With the exception of developing an aversion for corporal punishment, he’d never questioned his life or the decisions that were made by his parents. He’d always accepted that those in authority knew best.

  Years later, a duel fought on a grey London morning—and the long weeks of recovery that followed—had served to awaken him. He was twenty-two then and had been fortunate to see another sunrise.

  As Wynne entered the north annex, the bookkeeper, Cameron, appeared at the bottom of a stairwell.

  “Dr. McKendry is looking for you, Captain. He’s in his office.”

  Telling the former purser that Cuffe would likely be absent from his afternoon lessons, Wynne then ascended the stairs. He walked past his own office—an oasis of order and calm—and entered Dermot’s chaotic workplace. Regardless of the constant nagging of the housekeeper during the weekly cleaning, every surface of the spacious room was covered with papers and folders, and the floor was little better. Textbooks and medical journals were scattered about and piled in corners. Volumes lay open on every available chair and on top of stacks of paper.

  Each man had his own method of managing his affairs, and neither interfered with the ways of the other, though Wynne was often sorely tempted by the sight of Dermot’s mess.

  Standing at a tall desk by a window, the doctor was inscribing notes in an open ledger. He turned around and tossed the pen on top of the book when he heard Wynne enter.

  “You’re back.” He smiled, satisfaction evident on his face. “The most extraordinary circumstances have developed with our new patient.”

  “Charles Barton?” Wynne asked. “A change in his condition already?”

  “Come and see for yourself.” Dermot came around his desk.

  Ten days ago, Charles Barton, fifty-six years of age, arrived at the Abbey emaciated and unresponsive, delivered for permanent care by his aging mother, a local landowner. Her son, Mrs. Barton explained, had arrived home at Tilmory Castle in this condition after sustaining a head injury during an explosion aboard some merchant ship months earlier.

  Though the old woman had provided generous financial support to make certain her son would be well cared for in his final days, Dermot believed that Barton’s demise was not imminent.

  “I heard an uproar of some kind coming from the direction of the gardens,” the doctor said, as they started down the stairs to the hospital ward.

  Wynne nodded. “I understand the pigs had some extra greens in their diet, thanks to Cuffe.”

  The men exchanged a look. Nothing more needed to be said. Wynne’s struggles with new parenthood weren’t lost on Dermot. “Well, I’m certain Hamish will have everything back on an even keel in no time.”

  “I hope so,” Wynne replied. “I took your aunt’s recommendation and stopped down at the village and spoke to the vicar about providing Cuffe with some religious instruction. It was agreed that an hour a week would—”

  “You should have asked Blane McKen
dry about golfing instruction instead.” Dermot shook his head. “I happen to know that old heathen can teach Cuffe more about niblicks and longnoses than he can about Psalms and Beatitudes.”

  Regardless of the weather, the Squire and his brother the vicar met every day to chase their golf balls across the fields.

  Wynne and Dermot entered the nearly empty ward. He’d seen many of the patients outside. At the far end of the long and spacious room, two handlers were settling Stevenson, the only unpredictable patient in the hospital. Still in his twenties, the former dockworker from Aberdeen had been diagnosed with “furious mania.” Highly disturbed, he had occasional bouts of violence, and any irritation could upset him. Even now, he was upbraiding the handlers with loud obscenities and clutching his tam protectively to his chest.

  Wynne knew it took a special temperament and character to treat lunatics. Dermot would not permit the use of shackles, though they were commonly used elsewhere, and only Stevenson was restrained at night. The doctor believed attempts should be made to cure these men, and short of that, they should at least be allowed to live decently.

  Charles Barton, their newest patient, was sitting by a sunny window halfway down the room with a secretary’s desk on his lap. Thin fingers moved a pencil lightly over paper.

  “He’s conscious!” Wynne exclaimed.

  “More or less,” the doctor said. “He has yet to speak a word.”

  The two men crossed the ward to the window, but Barton didn’t look up or acknowledge their presence. The man’s greying curls were bound in a head wrapping, and his pale, sunken cheeks sported a thick beard.

  “His mother made no mention of it, but we’ve discovered that Mr. Barton is an accomplished artist,” Dermot told him. “But the fascinating thing is that he likes to draw the same face, the same young woman, over and over.”

  The old man’s eyes were fixed on a sheet of paper, his fingers becoming more insistent as he finished with a drawing and reached for a clean sheet.

  “I’d like to know the subject of this man’s obsession.” Dermot handed the recently drawn sheet to his friend. “It might help with the patient’s recovery.”

  Wynne gazed at the drawing in his hands. He’d seen those dark curls before in a thousand dreams. He’d seen them swept up, and he’d seen them falling gracefully over those slender shoulders. He’d seen those eyes, so precisely angled above the high cheekbones. The delicate nose, the set of the mouth. Those lips.

  Recognition struck him like a bolt of lightning. He felt the blood drain from his face. It can’t be, he thought. Alarm and hope battled for dominance.

  Wynne picked up another sketch. And then another. He stared at each one in turn. All the same woman. There was no question.

  * * *

  It was only yesterday, the first time they met.

  The flushed faces of dancers in their gowns of gold and blue and green, and their evening suits of black, and uniforms of red and blue. Around him, his fellow officers were joking and pointing out prospective brides and conquests.

  And then he saw her.

  They’d never been introduced, but he knew her by name. She was unlike so many of the young women being presented at Court for the first time, who fought for every glimmer of attention. Even now, standing by the punch bowl, she had a quiet reserve that hinted at sadness. He wondered if she was affected by stories that were beginning to circulate. He didn’t put any stock in gossip, but the talk of her origins was spreading like flames in a dry August meadow.

  Groups of partygoers milled about, and several young women halted beside her.

  Wynne knew the moment something was said. The warm blush drained from her pretty face and her back stiffened.

  Suddenly, she was off, darting through the crowd with the deftness of a bird in flight, until she disappeared through the doors opening onto the terrace.

  What possessed him to go, he’d asked himself so many times. He only knew she was upset, she was alone, and he went after her.

  * * *

  “I . . .” Wynne began to speak, but the words were too slow to keep up with his drumming heart and his racing mind. “The woman in these drawings is Josephine Pennington.”

  Chapter 2

  Baronsford, the Scottish Borders

  May 1818

  The drowsy infant’s contented sigh caressed Jo’s heart like a summer breeze. Holding her niece on her lap, she gazed at the long lashes and the round cheeks and pursed, red lips. She didn’t think she’d ever seen a child more beautiful than the Honorable Beatrice Ware Macpherson Pennington, born just two months ago to her brother Hugh and his extraordinary wife, Grace.

  “The resemblance is astonishing.”

  Jo tore her gaze from the angelic bairn and watched her sister-in-law peruse the portfolio of sketches that had arrived only yesterday from a private asylum in the Highlands.

  “These must be drawings of you at a younger age,” Grace asserted, holding one of the pages up to Jo’s face.

  Relief rushed through her. Her sister-in-law confirmed what she too had seen. The image definitely bore a close resemblance to her.

  “Look at the tilt of the eyes. The shape of the brow. The reserved smile. Even the expression on her face as she looks away. You do the same whenever you’re the center of attention.”

  Everything Grace said was true. Upon opening the parcel, Jo had been dumbfounded. She couldn’t recollect when these sketches might have been done of her. But she’d quickly noticed the differences. The loose curls that draped over the woman’s shoulders. The dated style of her dress, long before Jo’s own time. One of the drawings depicted a worn mountain peak in the background. At no time in Jo’s youth had she ever visited such a place, though of course, it might have just been a whim in the mind of the artist.

  But the similarities were undeniable, and Jo was struggling to repress the buoyant feeling of hope rising in her chest. The possibility existed that these sketches might lead to an answer she’d been pursuing all her life.

  “But you don’t think they’re pictures of you?”

  Jo shook her head. “No, I’m certain they’re not.”

  Grace paged through the drawings, looking at each one. “And these were sent by whom?”

  “A physician named Dermot McKendry,” she replied. “He writes that he’s the director of the Abbey, a licensed private asylum near Aberdeen. His letter refers to an elder gentleman under his care. The man doesn’t speak, nor does he acknowledge anyone around him. He simply spends his waking hours rendering likenesses such as these.”

  “Of other people as well?”

  “No. His mind is apparently fixed on this particular woman.”

  Grace laid the pictures aside and leaned toward Jo to adjust the soft blanket framing the baby’s face. “Did Dr. McKendry mention the name of his patient?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Jo’s nerves were getting the better of her. Grace, well aware of her friend’s need to move when she was troubled or thinking, took her daughter back. Jo immediately rose to her feet.

  “But what made this doctor think that these were likeness of you, aside from the obvious resemblance? Do you know him?”

  “I don’t believe so. But even though he doesn’t explain in his letter, we’ve had many women who’ve come through Baronsford, staying at the Tower House until they were able to find employment. Many came from the Highlands and returned there. Any number of them could have found a position at the Abbey.”

  Jo began pacing across the brightly lit library. Aberdeen. Thirty-seven years ago, her own mother had been in the company of cotters who’d been cleared off the land in the Highlands and were passing through. Perhaps she was from the area. Perhaps Jo’s origins lay in Aberdeen. After crossing back to Grace, she picked up one of the sketches.

  “You’re hoping that the young woman in these drawings is your mother,” her friend said.

  There were no secrets between them. Grace was one of the only people that she had ever ope
ned her heart to. Regardless of the years that had passed and all the philanthropic projects Jo had used to give her life purpose, the mystery of her birth was as painful today as it was when she first recognized the ramifications of her dubious origins.

  “Write back to the doctor,” Grace suggested. “Ask for more details. Perhaps he’ll reveal the name of this patient.”

  Jo shook her head. She’d tried to learn more about her mother before and had run up against blank walls. This was the first potential clue ever, regarding the woman who gave birth to her. Perhaps these drawings would lead her to a family connection. No, she couldn’t leave it to chance. She couldn’t allow Dr. McKendry’s patient to slip away.

  “I need to go there. I want to meet this elder gentleman.”

  “But what do you know of Dr. McKendry?” Grace asked. “Or this asylum, the Abbey?”

  “Nothing. And I do understand that I’m building a castle of hope on a foundation of sand. Still, I can’t waste this chance. I’ll not err on the side of caution. Not this time.”

  No woman Jo had ever met had lived through more dangers than her sister-in-law. No one in her acquaintance was more courageous than the young mother seated before her. Grace had seen the bloody battlefields of France and Spain, and endured a sea crossing between Antwerp and Baronsford trapped in a wooden crate. She was a survivor. Jo prayed that her friend would see this for what it was, a simple journey to the Highlands.

  “You know your brother,” Grace said doubtfully. “Hugh will insist that you delay such a trip until he knows everything there is to know about Dr. McKendry, the Abbey, and his patients.”

  She was correct. Hugh would try to stop her. Jo loved her brother, respected him. And in his view of life, knowledge was always empowering. As Lord Justice of the Commissary Court in Edinburgh, he never acted impulsively. Add to that the protectiveness he felt for her, and she knew he would make this trip impossible.

  Jo recognized she’d created a dilemma for her friend by telling Grace her intentions. She didn’t want to drive a wedge into the bond of trust between husband and wife.