It Happened in the Highlands

by May McGoldrick

  “She lives in the village?” Jo asked.

  “Yes, she runs the circulating library. You should stop and see her. A delightful woman and very knowledgeable about the history of the parish. More than happy to share it too, if you know what I mean. She’s lived in the village her whole life, I believe.”

  Mrs. Clark could certainly not be her mother, Jo thought. But perhaps she’d be a good source of information not captured in the church registers. She glanced out the window at the late afternoon sun and recognized the irony of hoping to glean information from a village gossip.

  By the time they finished going through the books, the records of four children named Josephine were written down on Jo’s page. Five, if she included Mrs. Clark.

  “Young, Sellar, Scott, and Brown,” the clergyman read the names aloud. “I’m not certain how they may relate to you, m’lady, but we do have parishioners with these family names still living in the area.”

  Jo didn’t know if there was enough cause here for celebration. Pieces of the puzzle were revealing themselves, but the background where everything might fit was murky.

  “Do you keep your marriage records here?” Wynne asked.

  Mr. Kealy had begun to replace the volumes in the box.

  “Yes, of course. What years are you interested in seeing?”

  “For 1781, the year of the flood, and for 1780,” Jo told him.

  “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I believe I have them on a shelf . . .”

  As the clergyman went to retrieve the records, Jo sent a look of gratitude Wynne’s way. She was satisfied to find a possible surname for her mother. But he thought beyond it, unwilling to leave any stone unturned while they were here.

  When Mr. Kealy returned and placed the book on the table, his face already showed his dismay.

  “How unfortunate,” he said, laying it open on the table. “These should have included the years you’re interested in, but I’m afraid we have very little left.”

  The flood had nearly destroyed this volume, and age had done the rest. Vermin had chewed sections of the cover and the paper. Pages were torn and many appeared to be missing. The ink had run and what was left was often blurred beyond legibility. They looked over what they could, but found nothing of use.

  The curate glanced at his watch. It was near five already. “I am sorry, m’lady, but I believe we’ve done all we can do here.”

  Picking up her list, he studied the names they’d collected, and proceeded to explain where each of the families lived in relation to the village. Two of the names had several branches of the family in the area.

  “I know the time is growing late and you wished to return to Rayneford tonight, but tomorrow is Sunday. All these families should be attending church,” the young man suggested. “If you care to stay, I can introduce you to all of them tomorrow after the service.”

  Wynne’s look at Jo caused a reaction in her that had nothing to do with their search and everything to do with the two of them staying in the village tonight. No Squire and Mrs. McKendry to break into their conversations and endeavor to keep them apart. No dinner guests. There was the question of propriety, but what did she care about her reputation?

  And Wynne had proposed to her already.

  The press of his knee against hers under the table was her undoing, and her insides melted.

  “The inn where you took refreshments earlier offers comfortable accommodations. I would invite you to stay here, but as you can see, I have little to offer. Since my housekeeper left, I’m afraid the house is hardly suitable for guests.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kealy,” Wynne replied. “We’ll think about it.”

  * * *

  Because a group of army officers traveling through had already engaged the private dining room at the coaching inn, Wynne and Jo were seated in the public room, which suited them perfectly. He’d convinced her that they should have their dinner in Garloch before making a final decision about staying or going back to the Abbey.

  “But what about Cuffe?” Jo asked, speaking over the noise of the villagers, as well as a crowd of travelers who’d stopped to eat while the coach horses were being changed.

  “The lad will be fine. I left Dermot in charge of him, and the good doctor takes that responsibility very seriously. I didn’t mention it before, but thanks to you and his success reading in the ward, Cuffe has agreed to follow Dermot about as he attends to his duties.”

  “I imagine Dr. McKendry would be an enthusiastic teacher.”

  A waiter arrived with their steaks and fish.

  Wynne was tempted to make a humorous comment regarding his former rival’s enthusiasm, but he could no longer do it. He had Jo’s affection, and that was all that mattered.

  “Dermot can be relied upon to give my son every attention.”

  As they ate, Jo grew silent, and that worried him. He didn’t interrupt her thoughts, though. He knew her mind had to be roiling with everything that had happened today—from their conversation in the carriage to the information they’d collected at the rectory. And with regard to her mother, she still had no definitive answers.

  He’d proposed and she’d accepted. He was only moderately concerned about her family accepting their decision, but they needed to consider how they were going to arrange their lives together. He didn’t want her to feel she must make a sacrifice to adapt her life to his, but he didn’t want to set the dust of the past swirling about her either. And that would happen if they were to live in London or the Borders.

  Sixteen years ago the uncertainty of her birth was the source of her unhappiness. Today they were looking at many doors, and Wynne would do whatever was necessary to help her open every one.

  “If we were to stay, meeting all these people tomorrow could produce nothing,” she said finally, laying down her knife. “All I can ask them is what happened to your Josephine. But what would induce them to answer such a question? I have nothing to offer in return for their family confidences.”

  Wynne could understand her hesitation. Still, he found himself arguing against it.

  “You might never come this close again,” he told her. “And time will inevitably diminish your chances of finding the truth. Tomorrow—if we stay—we can attend the service, go through some introductions, ask the questions, and return to the Abbey. I’ve already spoken to the innkeeper, and he’s put aside two rooms for us if we choose to take them.”

  Jo began to say something, but stopped. Her gaze was fixed on something behind him and a faint blush was rising into her cheek.

  “I’m being stared at.”

  Wynne turned and looked. Sure enough, a middle-aged woman stood by the door, clutching a large canvas bag and gaping in their direction.

  “I believe she knows me,” Jo said, getting to her feet.

  Wynne stood as the woman approached.

  “My apologies for being so forward, m’lady. Captain.” She curtsied, and they learned she was Mrs. Clark.

  “I happened to run into Mr. Kealy just now, and he told me about yer interest in the name. Told me ye’d likely be here. Naturally, I had to take a peek.” The woman pressed a hand to her chest. “Laying eyes on ye from a distance, m’lady . . . for a moment I was dead certain. You’re so much younger than her, of course. Ah, but I know it must be a mistake. My eyes ain’t what they once were.”

  “Would you care to join us, Mrs. Clark?” Wynne offered his seat.

  She glanced back at the door. “Thank ye, Captain, but no. I’ve two more deliveries that need to be made, and my old man is waiting outside. The curate said ye might be coming around to the service tomorrow. Perhaps we can chat then.”

  “Will you at least tell me who it is you thought I resemble?” Jo asked as the woman turned to leave.

  Mrs. Clark studied Jo’s face in silence for few heartbeats before she spoke.

  “Josephine. Josephine Sellar. A lass from my childhood years.”

  The older woman shook her head and held up a wrinkled hand befor
e either of them could ask more.

  “I’m sorry, m’lady. But it’s all just an old woman’s fancy. She can’t possibly be any relation of an English lady. Can’t possibly be. Never mind my foolishness. Till tomorrow, then.”

  Without another word, she hurried off and disappeared through the door, ignoring Wynne’s entreaties to stay.

  When he looked back at Jo, tears were running unchecked down her face.

  Chapter 17

  Josephine Sellar.

  She had a name. Her mother had a name.

  Josephine Sellar.

  Her mother had a village. A family. People who cared for her. They remembered her.

  Jo’s eyes burned from her tears. Locking herself in the room Wynne had taken for her, she gave way to the rip current of emotion that she’d stifled for so much of her life. She cried for herself. And she cried for the young woman who’d not lived to hold her daughter past the first day.

  Josephine Sellar. Seventeen years old when she gave birth. Frightened, hungry, sick, alone.

  The women and girls who arrived at the Tower House were often broken, solitary, and afraid. For Jo, every one of those women was her mother. She sat with them. She cried with them. She listened as they gradually crept past their shame and their fear, and revealed to her the details of their lives. As they spoke, Jo wondered which painful journey ran parallel with her mother’s path. And as she listened, she silently swore the same oath to each of those women—not one of them would die as her mother had, clutching her newborn in the mud while an unfeeling world looked away.

  She paced the room—cold and shaken, recalling the insinuations, lamenting the lost years when she’d failed to fight for her mother. Guilt squeezed her heart and choked off the very breaths in her chest.

  She thought of the grave in the Melrose churchyard. The grave she visited every Sunday when she was at Baronsford. The only true connection she had with the past.

  JO. Two letters and the date her mother died. Nothing else. No acknowledgment of a life, only a death. No reference to when or where she was born. No family name. No husband. No parents.

  But now Jo knew more.

  A maid knocked at the door, saying the captain sent her up to help her get ready to retire. Jo sent her away. Sometime later, the same young woman came up to check on her. The captain was worried and asked if she needed anything. Jo sent her away.

  She didn’t know how long she sobbed in misery before the realization came to her. Sellar. Sellar. Why was she sitting here? She had to see the family now. She wanted answers that only they could give.

  With no care about how she looked or the disheveled condition of her dress, Jo left her bedroom and rapped on Wynne’s door. He appeared in the doorway immediately as if he’d been expecting her.

  “Take me to them,” she demanded, his face a watery blur. “Please take me to the Sellar farm. I need to speak to them.”

  “My love, I understand,” he said gently. “But the hour is late. Tomorrow—”

  “I’ll go by myself,” she exclaimed, turning on her heel. She didn’t make it more than two steps down the hall, however, when Wynne caught her and drew her back to him.

  “I need to do it, Wynne. I need to go now.” She struggled to free herself. “I need answers.”

  The sound of boots coming up on the stairs startled her, and Jo let him pull her into his room and close the door.

  “I know you need answers. And you’ll have them. I swear to you. But not tonight,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Tomorrow, we won’t leave Garloch until you meet and speak with everyone you need to. I promise you that. I give you my word.”

  “But tomorrow might never come,” she sobbed as he pulled her tightly into his arms.

  The rush of tears, the pain rising from the cracks in her battered heart, the need to empty the boundless well of sadness was like no grief she’d ever experienced.

  He whispered soothing words, tried to wipe away the tears, and as she felt calmer, another wave would begin, overwhelming her, drowning her.

  “Talk to me, my love,” he murmured against her ear. “Tell me what you’re feeling. Perhaps it would make this heartache easier to bear.”

  She pressed her face against his chest. The steady beat of his heart, the warm strength of his arms around her, made her troubles fade for a moment. For just an instant, the pain was gone. She tried to pull away, but he held her there.

  “Stay. Let me.”

  Jo’s tears soaked his linen shirt, and she realized he wasn’t wearing his coat and waistcoat. His hands massaged her back. His lips pressed kisses into her hair. He enveloped her with his soothing warmth. She didn’t know for how long they stood there, but gradually the sobs lessened. The tide of tears ebbed until only a few runaway drops were left.

  “What happened?” he asked softly. “I thought the discovery of your mother’s family name would be cause for celebration, but your reaction breaks my heart.”

  It was some time before she could trust her voice.

  “I found her,” she whispered. “I’ve learned her name only to realize that she is truly lost forever. For all of my life, I was told she was gone. Still I looked for her. I searched for someone that I resembled. Creating a world of my own, I imagined a woman who shared my hair, my eyes, someone who spoke like me. Deep in my heart, I carved out a protected space for the belief that she wasn’t really gone. When Charles Barton’s drawings arrived, that belief exploded within me.”

  “I can only imagine the shock.” He continued to hold and caress her.

  “Tonight, giving her a name, a village, people who knew her made everything finally, irrevocably real. I mourn because she was gone before I ever knew her.”

  Jo pulled herself out of his arms. She felt horrified to have fallen apart like this in front of him. Her eyes were nearly shut. The room was small, a bed and a dresser comprised all the furnishings. There was no space for her to pace.

  She took his hand and pulled him to the bed and sat on the edge.

  He remained standing.

  “Sit with me.”

  He hesitated. She wasn’t so far gone in her grief not to understand why. He was trying to be a gentleman, even now.

  “Hold me, Wynne.”

  She was relieved when he sat next to her and gathered her to him.

  She was calmer, more in charge of her wits, her mind clearer. She leaned her head on his shoulder, inhaled his scent, took comfort in his warmth.

  “When did you first learn that Lady Millicent wasn’t your mother?” he asked.

  The leaves of time flew back to a day that she’d never forget.

  “Lord Aytoun’s younger brother Pierce and his wife, Portia, were visiting Baronsford. She was with child and close to term. The women were gathered in my mother’s favorite room, the upstairs library in the west wing. Hugh and I were very young. We were playing with some toys on the floor.”

  She told him how the golden rays of sun angled through the open windows. The women were laughing happily at the active nature of the unborn babe in Portia’s belly, its movements clearly visible through the material of her dress. Jo walked to her aunt, amazed by the display.

  “My curiosity made me ask Lady Millicent, ‘Did I move like that when I was in your belly?’”

  To this day, Jo recalled the sudden silence that fell over the library. It was as if the air had been drawn from the room.

  “Did she answer you?” Wynne asked. “Did she tell you in front of the others?”

  “Before she could say a word, Portia’s mother answered. ‘You aren’t hers, child,’ she said.”

  He pulled her closer. “Why people insist on cruelty—”

  “It wasn’t cruelty,” Jo told him. “She was battling dementia. She’d become less and less responsible for the things she said.”

  She was finished with her tears, but the vividness of that memory wouldn’t leave her.

  “I recall throwing a tantrum in front of them all, demanding to know whose
belly I grew in. And where was my real mother?”

  “What did Lady Millicent do?”

  “If I shed one tear, she shed ten,” Jo told him. “She took me out of the library. She kissed me and hugged me and wept over me. She explained that my mother was in heaven. But that was only the start of my questions.”

  Jo told Wynne about the crippling anxiety she felt any time she had to be separated from Lady Millicent as she grew up. She began each day worrying if her parents were going to be gone. Or if she might be separated from her siblings.

  “She was my mother as truly as any birth mother could be,” she whispered, sitting straight and pressing her fingers to her swollen eyes. “She and my father were always there. They always loved me. They protected me, even when the rumors during my first Season made me want to run in shame to the Antipodes. They never made me feel like an outsider.”

  Jo took some deep breaths, trying to recover from her earlier breakdown.

  “My reaction tonight . . .” She shook her head.

  “I was telling Cuffe last night that part of knowing who you are is knowing where you came from.” He tucked a curl behind her ear. “Your search has been about finding your history. Histories have a beginning. Today you made a fine start. But I understand your sense of loss and I am sorry for it.”

  He was so loving, so perceptive. Years ago this was the way it had been between them. Their minds and hearts were so open, so much in harmony. She could tell him anything. Pour out her heart. Share with him her struggle to belong and feel connected to a society that kept her at arm’s length. He always understood. He always made her feel complete.

  A weight had been lifted from her chest. She could breathe again.

  “I am sorry I’ve behaved so badly.”

  “You haven’t.” He raised her chin, and his gaze caught and held hers before placing a kiss on her brow. “But you’re allowed if you choose to.”

  “I must look a fright.”

  “You look beautiful,” he whispered, his lips kissing the wetness from her cheeks as his fingers combed the loose tendrils of her hair.