Page 15 of It Happened in the Highlands
“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 averyslight 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.
