The argument simmering within him had no rhyme or reason other than Wynne wanted to believe that he’d done everything he could possibly do. He’d been patient, persistent, generous, and still there was a boy upstairs who’d cut through all of his confidence and made him feel like a failure.
“I’m sure raising and educating a son who must already think himself a man is not easy. Children can be complicated creatures,” she said gently. “I’ve come to believe that no two are the same. But as long as you’re willing, and you value your son as the treasure that I’m certain he is, the path will reveal itself.”
The kindness and compassion, the calm temperament, the reasonable approach. She could always change the darkness to light and chase away any rain cloud. Her voice warmed him even now with its quiet assurance. During the time they had been betrothed, they never argued. Jo knew his moods, recognized his moments of sadness, read his thoughts when he was troubled.
“Shall we go in?” she asked.
Wynne trailed after her, realizing that already the weight of dealing with Cuffe’s behavior was lessening. He didn’t need to decide on one ultimate punishment. There was no one solution to fix what was wrong. He shouldn’t second-guess the decisions that were made in the past. Today was simply another day amid many more days of challenge.
The ward was busy, with most of the patients having returned from activities that took them and the attendants outside. While a few sat by windows, staring out idly, most were joined in a number of social pastimes, with games of chess and draughts and backgammon being played at tables.
Wynne watched Jo taking all of this in. When a patient named Fyffe—a harmless fellow from Nairn—waltzed around them as he played his imaginary fiddle, she smiled sweetly at him and waited until he’d danced away.
She showed no fear or awkwardness at all about the strangeness of the place.
He gestured across the room.
“That’s Charles Barton in the bed,” he told her quietly. “The two older people across from Dr. McKendry are his mother and his uncle, his only living family. They live at Tilmory Castle, not four miles from here.”
Jo looked across. “I don’t recognize any of them.”
Dermot paused in what he was saying when he saw them.
As Jo and Wynne started across the ward, the relatives standing at the patient’s bedside looked at them.
For a moment he thought they’d turned to pillars of salt. Like Lot’s wife, they stood like statues, gazing at Jo with expressions of shock. Slowly, Mrs. Barton’s mouth opened, and a confused and horrified look came into her eyes. Graham shook his head, as if to shake off a vision that he could not account for. As if seeing a ghost that had suddenly appeared in broad daylight, the two stared in disbelief.
Then Barton’s uncle regained control of his features, the customary hardness returning to his face. But his mother was slower to recover her composure, weakly reaching out and clutching at the old man’s hand as she sank down heavily onto a chair.
* * *
They knew her.
The seeds of hope cast upon her heart when Jo first saw the drawings at Baronsford sprouted and took root, sending up shoots and spreading tender green leaves. Mrs. Barton’s bloodless face, the trembling fingers pressing a handkerchief to her lips, the hooded gaze constantly flitting from her son to Jo to the old man standing beside her, every movement indicated familiarity, recognition.
Jo forced herself to breathe. This woman sitting in an asylum deep in the Highlands, and the man standing rigidly beside her, held the key to the mystery of her past. The mere possibility that her lifelong pursuit of her mother’s identity could end with a simple introduction to these people nearly overwhelmed her.
Excitement buoyed her as she neared the patient’s bedside. The years of speculating where she’d come from, the never-ending mission of defending her late mother could all come to a close in the next moment.
“Lady Josephine Pennington, may I introduce Mrs. Barton and Graham Barton,” Dr. McKendry said.
The courtesies were exchanged, but the young tendrils of hope and anticipation were immediately knocked askew by the old man’s icy glare. Mrs. Barton’s response was no warmer. A mask had descended over her pallid features. And after the introductions were complete, the woman shifted her gaze toward Charles, effectually shutting out everyone else.
A hard, tight knot of panic began to form in Jo’s chest. Those seedlings of hope wilted, their growth arrested by the rough cold wind of the Bartons’ response. A silent cry rose in her throat. She wanted them to look at her again, to give her some sign that they shared a tangible relation, a connection, something hard and fast and true. Instead, she was facing a wall of stony disregard. They’d hastily covered their involuntary moment of surprise and recognition with a cold veneer of indifference and hostility.
But Jo saw through them. She’d faced rejection her entire life.
“As I was saying before Lady Josephine and Captain Melfort joined us, this new development offers great promise,” Dr. McKendry explained. “Since we reduced the dosage of laudanum, Mr. Barton has displayed a distinct desire to communicate with us, in his own way, through the sketches.”
He reached behind him and fetched a portfolio from a nearby table, presenting it to the mother.
“This is all his work. Drawings of the same person. Someone who closely resembles Lady Josephine.”
The doctor made a vague explanation of how, through a mutual acquaintance, he was able to identify Jo as the possible subject of the drawings before corresponding with her.
That mutual acquaintance he referred to stood beside Jo, his grey coat brushing against the sleeve of her dress. It was true they’d been alienated for years, but at this moment she felt no strangeness about Wynne’s presence, stalwart and steadfast as the oldest of friends. And she welcomed his company. He, perhaps more than anyone, understood the significance of this connection. She had no doubt he was the reason Dr. McKendry reached out to her.
“Is it possible you’ve all met before?” the doctor suggested. “If you’ll take a look at the drawings, you’ll see the resemblance is astonishing.”
Mrs. Barton opened the portfolio, paged carelessly through a few of the drawings, and closed it. Her face showed nothing as she glanced up at her brother-in-law.
Jo waited for an answer, too anxious to speak, still clinging to her fading hopes.
“Never have,” Graham said, speaking for the two of them.
Jo could not gather herself enough to say anything; the knot in her throat precluded it. Their faces, when they saw her, conveyed a clear sense of recognition and then dismay. But why would they deny that now? They were holding back, hiding behind a façade of aloofness. There was some hidden history that these two were reluctant to address.
They knew her mother. Jo had no doubt of it.
Mrs. Barton handed the portfolio back to the doctor. “These drawings suggest no individual person. They could be anyone. They’re images conjured by a delusional mind. I believe you’ve allowed a very slight resemblance to your friend Lady Josephine to influence your opinion.” She pointed at her son. “It breaks my heart. But look at him, staring at nothing, completely disconnected from us and the world. You’re wrong if you think he’s improved, and I fail to see why you’ve involved her ladyship in a family tragedy where she has no business.”
They were dismissing her. A light had flickered beneath the door to her past, but Jo had no power to push it open. The sketches were significant. They had to be. The doctor told her when she’d first arrived that Charles Barton was fifty-six years of age. Of the little Jo knew of her mother, she would have been fairly close to him in age.
Mrs. Barton’s sudden change in demeanor, Graham’s hostility, and Charles’s sketches were enough evidence of some connection. But she couldn’t find a way to challenge them. Their denials slammed the door on her, shutting her outside.
She’d come all this way for nothing. Old, familiar feelings of
helplessness jabbed her like an iron fist in the gut. She felt ill, defeated in what had to be the last chance she’d ever have of reclaiming her identity, of knowing who she was. Tears burned her eyes and threatened to break free.
A pressure of a firm hand in the small of her back awakened Jo to her surroundings. Wynne was there with her, supporting her. She took a deep breath and raised her chin.
“Perhaps, Doctor, you’re asking the wrong people about Lady Josephine’s connection,” Wynne said before addressing the family. “Mrs. Barton, you said your son spent many years away from Tilmory Castle before the accident.”
The old woman reached over and adjusted the blanket on Charles’s chest. “Unfortunately, we don’t know of his acquaintances during that time.”
“Lady Josephine, perhaps you can shed some light on this situation,” Dr. McKendry suggested.
Jo had already told the doctor she didn’t know the name, and she’d told Wynne she didn’t recognize the patient nor his family. Nonetheless, feeling her chance slipping away, she moved to the bedside.
All other sounds in the ward faded. The people gathered around the bed disappeared. Jo looked down into the patient’s lined face. His breathing was ragged, and he appeared to be wrestling with demons, battling unseen shadows. His eyes moved restlessly as he scanned the ceiling above, running from nightmares. She was convinced he had secrets to divulge—secrets involving her mother—but he couldn’t find the clarity of mind to grasp or convey them.
The sketches were distinct representations of the same person. Every image depicted the same woman at the same age. She was someone he knew, someone locked in his damaged mind, but she didn’t know how to pry that memory free.
“Charles,” she said gently, casting propriety aside. “Charles Barton.”
The patient turned his face toward the sound of her voice. He blinked and his eyes focused on her.
“Charles,” she said again.
A lifetime of insecurity and self-doubt surged like a spring flood rising against the fragile wall of an ancient dam. Fear and hope and loss churned within her, threatening to break through the seemingly paper-thin walls of her chest.
Know me, she prayed, closing her eyes. Speak to me.
Charles Barton’s hand slipped into hers, and Jo’s eyes flew open. Warmth emanated from their joined palms.
“You’ve come,” he whispered.
Chapter 6
You’ve come. No more, no less. Those were Charles Barton’s only words before he closed his eyes and released Jo’s hand.
It was enough.
Wynne knew what those words meant to Jo. He felt the impact of them. Barton knew her mother. He saw her mother in her.
What she had to be going through was clear to Wynne. The flowing tide of emotion within her had been evident to him from the moment they’d walked into the ward. The prospect of answers looked to be within reach. But when Barton drifted away again, he felt her fear that all of this was coming to nothing. The possibility of a lifeline had been cast out to her and then snatched away.
Wynne had thought she meant nothing to him. He’d told himself it was only duty that drove him to do the right thing and arrange for her to come to the Abbey.
But it wasn’t true. He still cared for her.
The strange behavior of Barton’s family had caught him off guard and then angered him. Their lack of cooperation in Jo’s pursuit of a possible connection had driven Wynne to the edge of his patience. Years evaporated like a morning mist, and he was ready to go to battle on her behalf once again.
That was the moment he realized he needed to leave the ward.
As much as he worried about the outcome of the ensuing discussion with the Bartons, Wynne knew Dermot was entirely capable of handling them. And he was certain Jo would do better without an angry, unsolicited champion meddling in her affairs.
Before returning to his office, he stopped and spoke to Cameron and then went down the hallway to the suite of rooms he shared with his son. Cuffe was still lying on his bed, and he didn’t even turn his head when Wynne directed him to report to the bookkeeper. He was to spend the rest of the day and tomorrow and the next day with him. He was confined indoors. No riding, no fishing, no roaming free, no going out at all. Cameron would see that he caught up with his lessons and then would provide him with more.
And anytime Cuffe wanted to talk, Wynne told him, he would make himself available.
Settling into his orderly office, he turned his attention to his work. He’d done what he needed to do immediately with his son. Now he had to push away any thoughts of Jo Pennington. And he might have succeeded if it weren’t for Dermot coming in not an hour later.
“The Bartons have gone,” he announced.
The question of Jo’s whereabouts arose in Wynne’s mind. He wondered if she was downstairs with the patient, or if she’d continued her journey to her brother’s without saying goodbye.
“After you left, we nearly went to war down there,” Dermot said, taking a book off the shelf and glancing at the title before placing it on the corner of Wynne’s desk. “The mother became adamant about taking Barton back to Tilmory Castle. She continued to claim—in spite of what we all witnessed—that there has been no change in her son’s condition.”
“I assume you won that battle and Barton is still with us,” Wynne said.
“As a matter of fact, I did. Graham stepped up as the voice of reason. Said he’s far too occupied with running that estate. He has no wish to be responsible for his nephew’s care.”
In matters of inheritance, rich estates like Tilmory Castle were often the focus of investigations and court hearings after the passing of a laird or landowner. Wynne knew from speaking to the vicar that, as it stood now, Graham was next in line to inherit.
“And Mrs. Barton agreed?”
“She had no choice.” Dermot pulled another volume off the shelf and studied the spine. “For good or ill, Graham obviously wants no shadow cast on him. He wants to be seen as doing what’s best. He convinced Mrs. Barton, saying perhaps more frequent visits to the Abbey would put her mind at ease and they should allow Charles to stay.”
Again, Jo and her whereabouts pushed to the foreground of Wynne’s thoughts. Growing impatient, he glared at his friend placing the book on the wrong shelf and reaching for yet another volume.
“And Lady Jo?” he asked as casually as he could.
“Yes. There’s the matter of Lady Josephine,” Dermot responded, turning his back to the bookshelves. “Mrs. Barton was quite distressed by the sight of her when you escorted her in. I know I wasn’t alone in seeing it. You surely did too.”
The older woman clearly knew Jo—or someone of similar appearance. Whether the link was familial or social, Mrs. Barton was a poor liar. Her reaction was too sudden and too pronounced. She would have collapsed to the ground if that chair hadn’t been behind her. And even afterwards, it took her a great deal of time to regain her composure.
“I saw it.”
Dermot pulled another book from the shelf. “And then when Barton said—”
“Where is Lady Jo now?”
The doctor glanced over. “I believe she went out to the stables to speak with her driver and manservant.”
“Why? Is she leaving?”
“Leaving?” Dermot echoed vaguely, paging through the volume. “No. In fact, she asked if she could take us up on my aunt’s invitation to spend the night here at the Abbey. Told me she’d be grateful if she could visit with Barton without the distraction of his family. And I think that is an excellent idea, considering how positively he responded to her voice. He spoke—for the first time—and minor as it might seem, to me it was a monumental step.”
Jo was still here, and he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. After all this time, they’d met again. They’d spoken about Cuffe. Now he wanted another chance to see her. Perhaps they could both successfully close a door on the past.
“Why are you frowning like your ship just hit a san
dbar? The recovery of our patients should make you happy.” Dermot dropped the book on a chair. “Unless your sour look is attributable to the fact that Lady Josephine is staying. Do you disapprove of her spending the night at the Abbey?”
“Of course not. Why should I?” Wynne shot back. “This is your hospital. Barton is your patient. If you think her staying here will aid in his recovery, why ask me?”
Dermot put both hands on the desk. They’d known each other for too long. The grey eyes challenged him to tell the truth. “I can arrange to get a room for Lady Josephine at the inn down in the village.”
“She should stay here,” Wynne snapped. “At the Abbey. I have no objection whatsoever.”
The younger man studied him for a moment longer before straightening up. When he went back to the bookcase, Wynne knew they were not done with this conversation.
“What is it, McKendry? Say what’s on your mind. Say it before every book I own has been scattered hither and yon.”
“Very well.” Dermot ran his fingers along a shelf and glanced over his shoulder at him. “What was the nature of your relationship with Lady Josephine?”
He was breaking an unspoken rule that had existed between them for years. One did not ask about the past. Everything each man knew about the other had been offered, never solicited.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m impressed by her.”
Wynne stared at his friend’s back. “What do you mean, ‘impressed’? You only met her today. How much time did you spend in her company to form such an opinion?”
“Are you saying she is not impressive?”
“Of course she’s impressive!” Wynne replied.
“So it’s fine for you to think she’s impressive,” he said, reaching for another book, “but not for me to think it?”
“Dash it, Dermot,” Wynne said, slamming his palm hard on his desk. “Leave my books alone.”
The doctor faced him. “What was your connection with her? And why did you wish to remain anonymous when we wrote to her?”
Wynne didn’t think all Highlanders were as mule-like as his hardheaded friend, but he was certain that Dermot wouldn’t give up until he had an answer.
It Happened in the Highlands Page 5