Page 14 of It Happened in the Highlands
“Where was that?”
“At a shelter we refer to as the Tower House, near Baronsford.”
“Was there ever a child wholly under your care?” he asked.
“Never wholly. The residents share in the responsibilities. It’s part of the mission of the place. But I imagine you too must have the help of tutors and any number of people to help you with your son.”
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.
