Page 50 of It Happened in the Highlands
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 with 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.
