Page 48 of It Happened in the Highlands
“Marriage was not part of our plan. Neither of us wanted or needed it. Fiba was financially independent after the death of her first husband, and she cherished her newfound freedoms. And my duties would rarely bring me back to Jamaica. To be honest, I had a very difficult time convincing her to marry me after we found out that she was with child.”
Jo would have expected nothing less from him. His sense of honor had never changed over the years. In their own relationship so long ago, he’d never taken advantage of Jo.
“Carrying your child didn’t influence her to marry you?”
“Fiba’s refusal wasn’t about me. For the first time in her life, she’d been able to help her people. Marrying another English officer only complicated matters. As far as our child, she planned on raising him herself, and argued that the island had a large number of mixed-race children.”
How sad that Cuffe lost a mother of such strength before having a chance to know her.
“How did you finally convince her?”
“I told her about you.”
“About me?” she asked, confused.
“I told her about a child who grew up searching for answers. About a young woman who couldn’t fathom the value her own qualities and character simply because of questions about her origins. I told her I did not want a child of mine to suffer as you had suffered.”
Jo thought of all he’d said about Fiba. A rival. A woman she should dislike, perhaps even hate. She’d married the only man Jo ever loved. She should envy Fiba for the multitude of days she’d had to spend with him. She had so many reasons to feel the deepest antipathy toward her. And yet, she could not. They’d loved the same man, and what Jo felt instead was nothing but kinship.
Chapter 15
Garloch had more to offer than the vicar had suggested.
The rough Highland road they’d been following descended into a valley town, protected from the north winds by a rugged ridge of mountain. A coach road, no doubt built by the army for moving troops during the Jacobite Rising, followed the shore of a long, narrow loch that stretched to the west, and a number of shops, cottages, and a venerable coaching inn clustered around the market cross in the village center. A second river converged here at this end of the town, cascading from the higher elevations and flowing beneath a stone bridge that appeared fairly new. The small stone church, the object of their journey, sat in a shady flower-studded glen below the confluence of the waters.
Going directly to the church, Wynne got out to speak to an old man bent over a well-tended plot in the kirkyard.
“That’d be Mr. Kealy,” the villager said in response to his question about the priest. “Ain’t here but once a fortnight, but yer in luck, sir. The young fellow’s arrived for the service tomorrow.”
After a few more questions, Wynne was able to ascertain that Kealy was the curate who divided his time traveling between two churches in area, the rector of the large parish keeping to a single church in a distant village.
“If ye’ve a mind to stretch yer legs along the river path or take some refreshment at the inn, he should be back bye ’n’ bye. Off visiting one of the parishioners, he is,” the older man suggested.
Wynne conveyed this information to Jo as he assisted her out of the carriage. He admired her profile as she raised her face to the sky and closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath.
A great deal had been said between them. She finally allowed him to speak of the past, and she asked about his wife, but that wasn’t where her questions ended. Among other things, she wanted to know if Fiba had a chance to hold Cuffe and for how long she lived after delivering him.
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.
