Page 52 of It Happened in the Highlands
“Finally!” he exclaimed. “Josephine. Do you see? This entry is difficult to read because the ink is blurred and faded, but I’m certain of it. Josephine Young.”
For a moment Jo lost the ability to breathe. Unlike Mary and Elizabeth and Margaret, Josephine was not a common name.
Almost immediately, Wynne pointed out a second Josephine.
“The name mentioned in this volume refers to a child born in 1764,” he told her. “Josephine Sellar.”
Her heart racing, her mind churning with all the possibilities, she copied what she could read from both registers onto her paper.
The name of the child. Lawful or natural birth. Date of baptism. Father’s name and occupation. Names of witnesses and the minister who performed the baptism. The name of mother was illegible in one of the two entries.
“Ah, here’s a Josephine that I know,” the curate said soon after, excitedly showing her another mention. “I’d quite forgotten that Mrs. Clark’s Christian name is Josephine.”
“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.”
