It Happened in the Highlands

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It Happened in the Highlands Page 15

by May McGoldrick


  Three days, he told her. She’d lived for three days after giving birth.

  A child losing a mother at birth was very personal to Jo, and that fact wasn’t lost on Wynne. It was the reason she’d come to the Highlands. Their journey to Garloch was based on long odds; the incoherent cries of Charles Barton could hardly be considered definitive. But she was not about to leave a stone unturned in her search. Here in this village, she believed she would find answers about her own mother.

  “Would you care to go to the inn, or shall we walk?” he asked when she turned her beautiful brown eyes on him.

  “Let’s walk,” she replied, linking her arm in his. Following the stone wall that bordered the kirkyard, they made their way toward the river. The path was well used, and they passed pine groves and cottages. Green fields dotted with sheep and adorned with yellow flowers stretched out over rolling meadows on either side of the wood-lined river.

  The sun was shining, and Wynne wondered if she knew how much he appreciated the gift she’d given him. A burden had been lifted from him now that he’d had the opportunity to explain his actions and apologize for them. Jo’s absolution was more than he’d ever hoped for.

  “I know this is a monumental day for you,” he told her when they paused on a prospect above a bend in the river. “You believe you’ll find a key here that will unlock the past. But regardless of where the day leads, I hope you know that I’m here with you. And I’m not only talking about this village or today. I mean, whatever you need, whenever you call on me, however you allow me to help.”

  Wynne didn’t want any misunderstanding to linger with regard to his intentions. He didn’t want to lose Jo. At the same time he understood she had much on her mind. He took her hand in his and looked into her eyes.

  “Jo, there’s so much more that I want to say.”

  Unexpectedly, she slipped her arms around him and pressed her face against his heart. Wynne’s arms closed around her and he held her. How often in their youth would she do this! When they were alone and she was shaken or upset, she would suddenly turn and embrace him like this. Holding him for even a moment seemed to reassure her that he was there with her.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, releasing him quickly as she always did.

  But Wynne wasn’t ready to let go. His arms remained around her, keeping her against him.

  “I’m not,” he replied, smiling down into her upturned face. “Does it still make you feel better?”

  “Much better. Thank you.” Her bright eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I’ve put so much hope into finding an answer. And now, as the possibility of learning the truth becomes stronger, I feel so unsure. It’s no longer simply an issue of knowing. What happens if I don’t like the answer?”

  “Does it matter?” he asked. “Whatever you learn today or tomorrow or next year, it doesn’t change who you are. And it won’t change anything for those who love you.”

  Jo smiled and nodded.

  “We all need to do what we know is right,” he continued. “Travel the road that we must. Even say the words that we should have said long ago. You’re doing it. You’re chasing an answer that means something important to you. But if you find nothing at the end of this journey, you’ve lost nothing in the search.”

  He lifted her chin and wiped away a tear from her cheek.

  “You are closer now than ever before, Jo.”

  “I know,” she agreed, appearing to be satisfied.

  Retracing their steps, they’d just reached the stone wall of the kirkyard when a thin young man wearing a dark suit and waistcoat came hurrying down the path toward them.

  The curate hailed them and introduced himself. The old man they’d spoken to earlier had informed him strangers were waiting for him.

  Wynne handed Mr. Kealy the letter of introduction provided by Dermot’s uncle, and the curate quickly scanned the contents.

  “It will be my pleasure to assist you in any way I can, m’lady,” he said, directing his words at Jo as he glanced at a pocket watch. “Unfortunately, I have only a few minutes at present. I have a previous commitment I must honor, but I can help you once I have fulfilled that obligation.”

  “Of course. But could you tell us if you do have records that might help us?” she asked.

  “We do indeed. And I’ve been particularly diligent during my tenure here.” Kealy paused and looked at Wynne. “I must say, however, that hasn’t always been the case. Sadly, I know of one curate in recent years who was . . . well, less devoted, shall we say?”

  Wynne and Jo exchanged a look as the young man motioned for them to follow him up the path toward the church.

  The curate turned to her again. “What is it exactly that you hope to find, m’lady?”

  “I’d like to start by looking up the name of a gentleman who may have some connection with Garloch. I can also supply the gentleman’s age, if that helps.”

  Passing through a gate into the cemetery, Wynne was struck by the inordinately large number of graves.

  “We keep records of birth, baptisms, marriages, and burials in a secure box with two locks,” Kealy told them. “Everyone in the parish is there. Since the change in the law six years ago, we’ve used the official registers from the King’s Printer, and once a year I send a duplicate copy of our records to the office in Aberdeen.”

  “And how far back do these records date?” Wynne asked him.

  “Well, with the exception of my predecessor, the curates and rectors have kept exceptional records going back to the years before the Union. So, well over a century, I’d say.”

  The young man paused and looked thoughtfully at the graves around them. Many of the older stone markers nearest the church had fallen or were askew.

  “But of course, one must discount the damage caused by the great flood. And there’s no telling how accurately the records were kept immediately following it.”

  “The great flood?” Jo asked.

  “Not Noah’s flood, m’lady, but a terrible version of it that struck Garloch, folks say. It was well before my time, but parishioners talk of it still. The churchyard was inundated. You can see the damage to the stones here. The water even reached the church, and the vestry was badly damaged. Actually, we’re fortunate the record box wasn’t lost entirely.”

  “When was this flood?” Wynne took Jo’s hand in his, remembering Charles Barton’s agitation about Jo drowning.

  “Let me see.” The curate stared at the sky for a few moments as if trying to recall the year. “I’m embarrassed to say I can’t tell you, but—”

  “Do you have an approximate year?” Jo persisted.

  The young man glanced past the older graves.

  “This way, if you please.” He motioned for them to follow. “Quite a few died in that flood. And not just villagers, so I understand. Innocent folk traveling through were caught unawares and swept away. Many were buried in that section over there.”

  Wynne put a hand on small of Jo’s back, urging her to follow the curate.

  Kealy went down on a knee beside one of the first graves they reached and pushed away old leaves and debris.

  Wynne read the inscription aloud. “Here lies the body of John Campfield. Departed this life May 4, 1781.”

  The curate moved to the next grave. “The same date. May 1781. That must have been the month and year of the flood. I’m quite sure of it.”

  Wynne turned to Jo, whose face had taken on an ashen hue. Both of them well knew the significance of the date.

  * * *

  In May of 1781, her mother would have been nearing her time. A month later, in the Borders far to the south, she delivered her daughter in the mud beneath a cart.

  Jo trailed her fingers down Wynne’s arm and he understood, immediately engaging their guide in a conversation.

  Sentiments accompanying the lost and found. A fearful surge of emotions. The beat of Jo’s heart echoed in a hollow space carved in her chest. She walked away. She needed to breathe, to make peace w
ith the information she’d received. There was still no sure connection. Nothing firmer than the cries of Charles Barton.

  Jo walked past grave after grave, some bearing names and ages, others adorned with ancient Celtic symbols and crosses. Some were carved with worn shapes her watery gaze could not focus on. The names on the stones meant nothing to her.

  She looked up at the village beyond the river and wondered if her mother had lived here. Perhaps these names meant everything to her. A childhood friend. A nursemaid. A clerk in the milliner’s shop. Or perhaps she was only a traveler passing through. She turned around to see the curate hurrying off and Wynne striding toward her through the grass.

  Where would she be today without him?

  “Kealy is certain we’ll find no record of Charles Barton in the books. From the information we were given when he arrived at the Abbey, I know he was born at Tilmory Castle,” he told her. “The curate claims they have their own parish and church. Still, I asked him if we could take a look in whatever he has of the older ledgers.”

  “The coincidence is jarring,” she said. “The date.”

  Wynne nodded. “He’s agreed to let us search through the records of births and baptisms and marriages.” He offered her his arm as they walked. “If she came from here, how many people do you think we’ll find with the name Josephine?”

  “But we don’t know if she was born in Garloch.” She took a deep breath, trying to remain calm.

  “We’re here. We should pursue every possibility.”

  He was right. Jo was letting her nerves get the better of her. This church. This might have been her mother’s church.

  “You said Lady Millicent always spoke of her as being quite young,” he went on. “I gave the curate a range of about six years or so that we’d like to look at.”

  She looked up, feeling admiration for him and gratitude that he was here. “When can we search the records?”

  “Mr. Kealy has promised by the time we walk to the inn and have something to eat, he’ll have concluded his business and be ready for us to proceed.”

  “Are the records here in the church?” she asked.

  “No, he told me since the flood, the books have been kept in the rectory, up the hill, away from the river.”

  She followed his gaze to a small stone cottage. The place looked tidy but unoccupied, and she remembered that the curate only came here twice a month. The church itself looked better kept.

  After Sir John Melfort purchased Highfield Hall, Jo had often wondered if she would run into Wynne at the church in Melrose Village. She never went without thinking about it. The same fear haunted her at social gatherings at their neighbors. In her imagination he was happily married and would be aghast at seeing her. The incident would be terribly painful and tear at her heart all over again.

  How wrong she was.

  “I can’t tell you how thankful I am for you,” she said without a tinge of embarrassment. “You’re thoughtful, considerate, dependable, and wise. In short, you’re indispensable, Captain Melfort.”

  He smiled, running a thumb caressingly over her hand before bringing the palm to his lips. “I like the last one the best. It gives me great pleasure to think you find me necessary in your life.”

  But he was so much more.

  “What are you saying?” she dared herself to ask.

  “I’m asking if—once we have returned to the Abbey—I may have the honor of calling on you and making my intentions known.”

  She studied the smile creasing his handsome face. “Let me see. We have conversed privately many times, have been alone in a room, traveled unchaperoned in a carriage, called one another by our given names, corresponded with one another and exchanged gifts, danced more than two sets on any evening—”

  “And touched intimately, if I may be so bold as to recollect.” He lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers, making Jo’s breath hitch, before straightening again.

  “You are indeed bold, Captain.”

  He bent his head. “I bow to your reprimand, m’lady.”

  “And I recollect that we have exchanged a great many smiles and sighs.”

  “And becoming blushes,” he said, caressing her cheek. “Pray tell me, though, that you are inclined to accept my proposal.”

  Jo felt as if she’d stepped into a dream. Wynne wanted her.

  Sixteen years ago, her happiness with him had been destroyed because of her unknown origins. Today, here in Garloch, where she might find the truth of her mother, she was also being given a second chance at happiness.

  “I am so inclined, Captain,” she said, slipping her arms around him. “But pray don’t write for my parents’ permission to visit and pay your respects. I have a great deal of explaining that I need to do first.”

  Chapter 16

  Jo and Wynne returned from the coaching inn to find the door of the rectory open and Mr. Kealy starting a small fire, despite the warm weather. Neither did much to diminish the damp and stuffy smell of the little cottage, but the curate’s efforts on their behalf were greatly appreciated.

  After seating them at a table by a sunny window, he disappeared into another room and then returned shortly, carrying a large wooden box. Jo watched his every step, studied the curate’s pale hands as he started to pull out the old parish record books. Her heart climbed into her throat.

  “The most recent registers are far better organized,” he told them. “We now use a superior system with ruled pages.”

  “Are the years we discussed here, Mr. Kealy?” Wynne asked.

  “Of course, Captain,” the young man replied, taking out the books containing prior years and checking the entry dates until he found the two relevant volumes. “Here we are.”

  He opened one and laid it on the table, giving the other to Wynne.

  “No last name. Only Josephine, you say?”

  The difficulty of the search became immediately clear. The volumes containing the years surrounding her mother’s birth had been soaked during the flood, and it didn’t appear that anyone had opened them for decades. The smell of mold rose from the stiff pages, many of which were stuck together. In spite of the curate’s extreme care, edges of the paper cracked and crumbled as he handled them. The water damage had caused the ink on the pages to blur and run. Whole pages were illegible. The register Wynne was looking through was in no better condition.

  Jo began to feel queasy as she tried to read the entries along with them. She’d been given the task of writing down any relevant information, but nothing had as yet turned up.

  “Are there any copies of these?” Wynne asked.

  “Very likely not,” Kealy told them. “Though I believe this far back, the procedure was to have each year’s records copied out and sent to offices of the bishop in Aberdeen. Yes, I’m certain of it.”

  “And whose job was that?” Jo asked hopefully.

  “The parish clerk, I should think. But looking at the condition of these registers and the untidy handwriting, I have to think they were as short on qualified help as we are now.” He shook his head. “I would not be surprised if very few of the records from this time were copied out and sent along to the bishop.”

  Several times, they were interrupted by parishioners coming to the door with problems requiring the curate’s attention. Three separate times, he left them alone to continue reading the entries. Jo imagined Mr. Kealy was required to perform all the duties of the rector, and for a meager salary. She’d already noticed that he could not afford a maid.

  As the afternoon began to wear on, Jo took strength in Wynne’s presence and his attentiveness to her. Their earlier conversation, his offer of marriage, and their time together at the inn had provided new life and new hope for her.

  As they’d walked through the village before going to the rectory, he told her about Cuffe’s words of encouragement about winning her over. She, in turn, suggested perhaps the three of them could return to the Borders. While she spoke with her family, Wynne could be intro
ducing Cuffe to his brother and wife and children. She hoped they could sufficiently mend the rift between the Melforts and the Penningtons. Though she didn’t mention it, the prospect of Hugh and Wynne coming face-to-face did give her heart palpitations.

  Before sitting down to search the registers, Jo hadn’t imagined that so many children would have been born and baptized during the six-year span of their search. When she posed the question, Mr. Kealy explained that since the village was on the coach road, many families continued to straggle through Garloch because of the ongoing tragedy of the clearances occurring farther to the north, in particular. For this reason the number of names in the books was far greater than one would expect.

  Another problem that slowed down the search was that occasionally two or more children were baptized together, and their details were entered at the same time. Wynne shared an entry where a family’s older sons and daughters were mentioned alongside their youngest.

  It was some time before the curate stopped, his finger pointing to a page.

  “Finally!” he exclaimed. “Josephine. Do you see? This entry is difficult to read because the ink is blurred and faded, but I’m certain of it. Josephine Young.”

  For a moment Jo lost the ability to breathe. Unlike Mary and Elizabeth and Margaret, Josephine was not a common name.

  Almost immediately, Wynne pointed out a second Josephine.

  “The name mentioned in this volume refers to a child born in 1764,” he told her. “Josephine Sellar.”

  Her heart racing, her mind churning with all the possibilities, she copied what she could read from both registers onto her paper.

  The name of the child. Lawful or natural birth. Date of baptism. Father’s name and occupation. Names of witnesses and the minister who performed the baptism. The name of mother was illegible in one of the two entries.

  “Ah, here’s a Josephine that I know,” the curate said soon after, excitedly showing her another mention. “I’d quite forgotten that Mrs. Clark’s Christian name is Josephine.”

 

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