It Happened in the Highlands E-Book

May McGoldrick

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Pennington Family Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 370

Beschreibung

PENNINGTON FAMILY SERIES A JILTED BRIDE... A DUEL AT DAWN... A LONG-HIDDEN SECRET... A SECOND CHANCE AT LOVE...   Lady Josephine Pennington was jilted by her fiancé once rumors spread about her questionable origins. Her adoptive parents have always provided her with the love and protection she's needed to feel secure, and over the last sixteen years she's molded herself to meet the expectations of others. When she receives a package from the Highlands containing sketches where the subject is eerily familiar, Jo believes she might have found a clue to the identity of her birth mother. When Captain Wynne Melfort ended his engagement to Jo Pennington sixteen years ago, he never imagined he would see her again. But after he uncovers information that could reveal the truth about Jo's parentage, Wynne feels bound by duty to right an old wrong and inform her of his find. But he never expected feelings long thought dead to resurface. Jo must learn how to trust Wynn as they strive to unravel the mystery of her birth. But forces emerge that will stop at nothing to keep her from uncovering the truth and reclaiming her legacy. Together, she and Wynne must overcome their past and fight a deadly menace lurking deep in the Highland mists.

Leseprobe

IT HAPPENED IN THE HIGHLANDS

PENNINGTON FAMILY SERIES

MAY MCGOLDRICK

withJAN COFFEY

Book Duo Creative

Thank you for choosing It Happened in the Highlands. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the authors.

It Happened in the Highlands. Copyright © 2022 by Nikoo and James McGoldrick

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Book Duo Creative.

Cover by Dar Albert, WickedSmartDesigns.com

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

Edition Note

Author’s Note

Also by May McGoldrick, Jan Coffey & Nik James

About the Author

To our friends Betsy Mark and Rich Assenza

Positive Proof of Second Chances

and Happily Ever After

All the privilege I claim for my own sex…is that of loving longest, when hope is gone.

—Jane Austen, Persuasion

1

London

May 1802

“A child’s birth should be a moment of joy, not misery.” The words cut through the busy hum of chatter in the dress shop, reaching the young woman in the adjacent fitting room.

“This girl’s origins are the most miserable, and the most abhorrent,” a second woman trumpeted. “Our society has no place for those with such sordid beginnings, if you ask me.”

The voices coming from beyond the curtained doorway cut Jo Pennington deeply, pricking open the wound that had been bleeding for her entire life. As she stared into the mirror, she had no doubt the two women knew she was within earshot. They had intentionally dispensed with any façade of courtesy. The volume and pitch of their conversation underscored their words.

“Indeed,” the first woman agreed. “I have it on the best authority that the girl’s mother was a baseborn courtesan!”

The seamstress pinning the lace to Jo’s sleeve was pretending not to hear, but her flushed face spoke of her embarrassment.

“‘Courtesan’is too fine a term,” the second woman replied. “I know what happened. I’ve tried to put the memory from me, but I was there. And I can tell you the girl’s mother was from the lowest dregs of existence. I hesitate to use such disgusting expressions, but we must see the world for what it is, even though it shocks those of us with refined sensibilities. The woman was a slatternly doxy wallowing in a ditch. A stale and shiftless vagrant adding to the world’s burden. A ‘decayed strumpet’, in the words of Dr. Johnson.”

Jo squeezed her eyes shut. She knew only too well the identity of the second woman, though she struck a different pose in the presence of any member of the Pennington family. Lady Nithsdale had indeed been a guest at Baronsford’s Summer Ball when the rain-soaked Countess Aytoun carried a hungry, mewling infant into the midst of society’s elite, only hours after Jo’s mother died giving birth in the mud beneath the cart of a kindly old woman.

But now Lady Nithsdale, loathsome and hypocritical, stood in the salon adjoining the dressmaker’s fitting room, loudly proclaiming all she remembered and even more that she’d invented.

How quickly the clouds blotted out the sun!

Only an hour ago, Jo had been basking in the joys of lively Oxford Street, with its large, bright shops filled with hats and bonnets, slippers and shoes, ribbons and lace. Eyeing the latest fashions in the company of her adoptive mother and sisters, she’d been so happy. While her mind had been on her intended and her upcoming wedding, eleven-year-old Phoebe and eight-year-old Millie had been cheerfully cajoling Lady Aytoun into the absolute necessity of having matching dresses made for them from the colorful array of fabrics hanging in graceful folds behind the fine, high windows.

And now this. Again. Ten days before the wedding.

Jo forced herself to focus on the image of her fiancé’s handsome face. On his dark blond hair, his smile, and his contagious laughter. On his broad chest and shoulders within his crisp naval officer’s uniform. On his large, warm hands holding hers in the darkness of a carriage. But even that could not blot out the hurtful, penetrating sound of polished malice.

“And yet I hear she’s to marry a baronet’s son.”

The second woman barked out a derisive laugh. “Your ears have not deceived you, my dear. She’s to marry Wynne Melfort, a strapping navy lieutenant with more than a few eligible young ladies competing for his attention this Season.”

“Melfort must be poor, I imagine. Second sons do need to make their way in the world, and the Penningtons are as rich as Croesus.”

“I assure you money is the only motivation for this match,” Lady Nithsdale asserted, the sneer in her voice clearly discernable. “The Earl of Aytoun has transformed a pauper child into an heiress worth twenty thousand pounds.”

Waves of shame washed through her, leaving her cold and ill. The young seamstress continued as quickly as she could, pinning the lace to the silver-hued wedding dress. As Jo stared into the mirror, unshed tears welled up, clouding her vision, and the delicately embroidered shells and flowers blurred.

“I heard they managed to have her presented at court, and as Lady Josephine Pennington,” the first woman continued. “I recall a day when money couldn’t buy that.”

Jo had been haunted by similar whispers since being presented in her first introduction to London society. Today’s assault was only different in its openness and intensity.

Before this year, her parents had successfully deterred her from attending the salons and ballrooms of the Season. Knowing that her obscure parentage would surely be a topic for the gossipmongers of London, they’d never wanted to expose Jo to society’s cruelty. Year after year, they’d persuaded her to stay at their estate in Hertfordshire or at Baronsford, the family home in the Scottish Borders. But at twenty-one years of age, with dreams of finding a husband, she’d won their anxious approval.

And then, immediately, she found Wynne. Or, he found her. Perhaps his initial attraction to her had been her dowry, but immediate sparks had flown between them. She knew they both felt it. Within a month Jo realized her weak-kneed reaction to the young naval officer was only partly due to his good looks and intense blue eyes. Their minds were in harmony. Their trust complete. The ability to bare their souls, reveal the long-buried aches, and celebrate the victories joined their hearts as one. And then there was his protectiveness.

The memory of their walk in Kensington Gardens this past Saturday came back to her. They’d been watching the military bands when Jo became aware of the feminine whispers. The voices made no mention of names, but it was perfectly clear that the topic of the conversation could only be Jo Pennington.

Recognizing her discomfort, Wynne had grown angry. Hints and vague innuendo and subsequent denial notwithstanding, he’d been ready to call out one of the husbands. During the few weeks of their engagement, she’d become more aware of his growing frustration. He was willing to confront and challenge anyone in defense of her honor.

But she couldn’t allow it. It was not in Jo’s nature to let him make a scene. Idle talk, she’d told herself over and over. It would go away. The gossips would find a new target. She didn’t need any additional notice. And she’d rather die than have anything happen to him.

“Of course, what else should one expect of the Penningtons?” Lady Nithsdale scoffed. “The earl and his wife are no strangers to scandal. That family is quite fortunate that anyone in polite society recognizes them at all. You’ve surely heard the shocking tales of their first marriages.”

“Tell me.”

As the vile woman proceeded to expound on the Penningtons’ family history, Jo’s lip quivered. The pain cutting through her was sharper than anything the previous comments had inflicted. The lifetime of love and kindness she’d received at the hands of her parents, the affection she felt for her four brothers and sisters, as well as the extended family, made her wish she had the strength to tear down those curtains and claw the faces of the two women on the other side.

Her chin sank to her chest. Why couldn’t they just go away?

“I’m not feeling well, I’m afraid,” Jo said to the seamstress. “Pray, help me out of this and into my dress again.”

“But, mistress, the modiste wishes to see you in it.”

“I’ll come back in a day or two to finish the fitting,” Jo told her, retrieving a coin from her reticule and putting it into the young woman’s hand.

A few moments later, she slipped through the curtained doorway. Refusing to look in the direction of Lady Nithsdale and her confidante, Jo could not escape hearing the snickers of the two women as she fled.

“Why, there she goes.”

“Lady Josephine.”

She didn’t slow down as she passed a clutch of seamstresses standing around a bolt of scarlet silk, and went out into the front room of the shop. Since childhood, Jo had been taught that life was hard enough and that there was no place in it for such malevolence. But these women had grown up in a different school. Lady Nithsdale and her lot had no souls.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Jo looked up at her mother waiting in the front of the shop with her two younger sisters. She’d promised to show them the dress once the lace was pinned to the sleeves.

“Where is the dress?” Lady Aytoun didn’t wait for an answer. “Something has happened to upset you.”

“Nothing has happened,” Jo lied. “I think the pastries we ate aren’t sitting well. Pray, let’s go home and come back another day.”

Millicent’s gaze moved to the doorway into the salon. Jo thought for a moment she’d need to stop her from going in and demanding to know what happened and who was responsible.

“Please, Mother. I’d like to go now.”

“As you wish.”

Lady Aytoun acquiesced, but her dark frown reflected her true feelings as they left the shop. Her family, and now Wynne, wanted to protect her. But Jo couldn’t bear the humiliation of a public confrontation. There could be no victory. She couldn’t change the circumstances of her birth.

Settling into the carriage, Jo took a few steadying breaths to calm herself.

All the gossip amounted to nothing, she told herself for the thousandth time. The past didn’t matter. Wynne had chosen her. He’d asked for her hand in marriage, knowing full well of her parentage. Her future with him didn’t need to include the likes of Lady Nithsdale. She closed her eyes and tried to think only of him. Of their future together, away from London’s ton.

Phoebe and Millie’s chatter was a welcome distraction, and it served to keep Lady Aytoun from asking any more questions on their way back home.

By the time their carriage rolled to a stop in front of the mansion facing Hanover Square, Jo had buried the incident at the dress shop deep with all the others. A footman in gold-trimmed livery greeted them as he opened the door. Another servant escorted them up the wide marble steps to the front door.

Inside the mansion’s entrance hall, Jo stopped to remove her gloves and hat, and her gaze was drawn to the semicircular alcove at the far end of the hall where she could hear men’s voices.

“Hugh is back!” Phoebe shouted gleefully, running in that direction with Millie on her heels.

Jo smiled at their mother, feeling the same exuberance as the two younger ones over the arrival of their brother. Only a year apart in age, Hugh and Jo had been inseparable since childhood, until his schooling required that he stay away for much of the year. And now he was serving as a cavalry officer for the king.

“I’m happy to see your upset stomach is already improving.” Her mother smiled, heading toward the open set of doors.

Before Jo could follow, an elderly footman approached with a letter. “While you were out, m’lady, Lieutenant Melfort left this for you.”

“Did he say anything?” she asked.

“Only that he was sorry you weren’t at home to receive him.”

“Thank you,” she said, breaking the seal.

She wanted to see Hugh, but Wynne was not one to write her letters. She wondered if this had anything to do with this coming Thursday. His parents and brother were to join them for dinner.

She paused at the entrance to the alcove. The letter was brief. The lines danced before her eyes, but certain words and phrases came into sharp focus.

. . . wedding arrangements . . . misery for you . . . break off our engagement . . . Ever your servant . . .

“No.” The room tilted. Her body became numb as she reread the words in a rush of denial. Wynne’s face appeared in her mind. The moments they spent together were lies. His affection, his declaration of love, all lies. Jo’s dream of her future vanished like a drop of rain on parched ground.

As her tears stained the letter, a strong hand took hold of hers, steadying her. Looking up through a blur, she recognized her brother Hugh’s worried face.

* * *

To the east above London’s steeples and rooftops, the sky glowed blood red, denying any promise of the sun’s appearance. The green meadows and woods of the park remained vague, indistinct, reluctant to emerge into the murky dawn light. Nothing stirred, not even the low-hanging cloud obscuring the Serpentine. Hyde Park was quiet at this hour. Deadly quiet.

The stock of the dueling pistol felt smooth and cool in Wynne Melfort’s hand. Tearing his gaze from the weapon, he looked across the dewy ground at the red-coated foe standing in the mist, silent and still, twenty paces away.

Hugh Pennington had come to kill him.

Wynne couldn’t blame him. He was Jo’s brother, and he was a man who would always defend her honor.

“Take your places, gentlemen.”

The notion ran through Wynne’s mind that neither of them should be here. He shouldn’t have let it come to this.

But how else could he have made her understand? His orders had arrived yesterday. His ship was leaving for Newfoundland.

He loved Jo, but if they wed, what kind of life was he leaving her to? His own vile parents would provide a place for her, but what kind of place would it be? Their claws weren’t any less sharp than the rest of the ton.

Wynne couldn’t marry her because he couldn’t protect her.

“When I drop my handkerchief . . .”

Too late for that now, he thought. Honor. Jo’s honor was at stake. And Wynne knew what he had to do.

As the handkerchief fluttered to the ground, the two men raised their pistols. In the distance, he heard the bell tolling in the tower above St. George’s Chapel.

Wynne shifted his aim high and to the right of Jo’s brother, and the muzzle of Hugh Pennington’s pistol flashed in the morning mist.

* * *

The readers of the Tittle-Tattle Review, scouring the rag for gossip, found confirmation of what was already common knowledge in London. The third entry referred to the duel between Hugh Pennington and Wynne Melfort:

It has come to our attention that on Saturday last, two well-known gentlemen faced each other with pistols in the misty dawn light beneath the tall and ancient elms in the northern environs of Hyde Park. Captain H.P. shot Lieutenant W.M. over a matter of family honor. W.M. was carried from the field. At the time of publication, it is unknown whether the wounded gentleman would survive the night.

2

Western Aberdeen

The Scottish Highlands

April 1818

Sixteen Years Later

With the mid-morning sun warm on his back, Wynne Melfort nudged his chestnut steed to a canter, following the grassy cart path along the banks of the River Don. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the strange, coconut scent of the brilliantly yellow gorse as his gaze was drawn along the sparkling waters to the crystal-blue backdrop of the round-shouldered Grampians to the west.

“Fine day to be out,” he said aloud, expecting no answer from his horse.

When Wynne retired from the Royal Navy two years ago, he and his friend Dermot McKendry, who’d served as surgeon on his ships for almost a decade, had turned their steps toward this idyllic place in the Highlands. The majestic mountains and the mysterious lochs and the stretches of untamed coastline couldn’t have been more different from the wide-open sea, or the lush green islands of the West Indies, or the crowded bustle of London and the West End. No place he’d ever been matched the beauty of the Highlands.

Not a mile along the river, Wynne turned his mount northward and rode up the rising tract through the newly tilled fields and stone-pocked grazing lands. Before long, the grey tower of the former Clova Abbey came into sight. Now known only as “the Abbey,” the vast estate—with its farms and forests, mill, and fish ponds—belonged for centuries to Dermot’s family, but the place had become the property of the Crown during the troubled times of Bonnie Prince Charlie. The McKendrys had a penchant for choosing the noble—and often losing—side of things.

The Abbey had offered the perfect situation for the two men. The good doctor, having inherited the wrecked estate, wanted to rebuild it and start a hospital—a licensed private asylum for those suffering from mental disorders caused by injury or disease. Prior to his years sailing with Wynne, Dermot had worked in an asylum in Edinburgh. Whatever he’d experienced there, it had been enough to drive the man to do this—to try to improve on treatment he found greatly flawed.

For himself, Wynne wanted a place to settle, so he put up his money in return for a portion of the estate lands. Now that his son had joined him here, Wynne’s investment was even more important. Years from now, when he was gone, the tower house he was rebuilding and the land around it would provide a legacy, a home that Andrew Cuffe Melfort could call his own, with obligations to no man.

It was a sound partnership. Dermot served as director of the hospital, handling the medical side of things; Wynne served as governor, managing the business affairs.

Passing the fields that Dermot’s aging uncle—known to all as “the Squire”—had designated as his golfing links, he soon reached the house. As he rode by the courtyard formed by two wings extending out from the main section of the building, he saw a number of patients and handlers taking advantage of the sun. The ground floor of a north annex, built by the army as a barracks during the campaigns to subdue the Highlands, now served as the ward for patients they were already treating.

Dismounting by the stables, Wynne turned at the sound of a shout coming from the direction of the kitchen gardens.

“Captain!”

He shielded his eyes as he looked toward the voice. With his bald head shining, Hamish was stomping toward him, hauling a scowling ten-year-old boy along by the collar.

This certainly didn’t bode well, Wynne thought, peering at his son’s face as the two approached. Cuffe was sporting a welt over one eye, a bloodied nose, a swollen lower lip, and a torn shirt beneath his waistcoat and dirt-stained russet jacket.

Another fight. The lad had only been in Scotland for a month, and this was his fourth skirmish. Cuffe was living up to the warning his Jamaican grandmother sent when she’d written that she could no longer keep him.

Wynne knew nothing about raising a child, but he’d enlisted the aid of others to assist him. Cameron, the purser on his ship and now the bookkeeper at the Abbey, was to begin teaching the lad what he’d be learning in school. Hamish, lead man on the farms, was to instruct the boy about the practical side of managing the land, an education invaluable for a future landowner.

As post captain in the Royal Navy, Wynne had commanded a number of vessels and hundreds of men during his career. Lads younger than his son served aboard ship, and they all needed time to adjust to the life. He admired the ten-year-old’s independent spirit, but Cuffe was beginning to worry him.

Wynne handed the reins to a stable hand as the two drew near.

“He’s done it this time, Captain,” the farm manager huffed. “This scoundrel of yers.”

Hamish was known both for his patience and his stoical acceptance of the trials of farming in the Highlands. Whatever Cuffe had done now, it clearly had been enough to push the Highlander beyond his limits.

“What have you done, lad?” Wynne asked.

Thin but strong, with a ramrod-straight back, his son gazed steadily at the ground in front of him, his curly, collar-length brown hair falling partially across his battered face. He never looked Wynne in the eye or spoke to him—acts of rebellion, he supposed—but the boy would eventually come around. He had to.

“I’ll tell ye, Captain,” Hamish snapped, not waiting. “This loon of yers has turned the pigs out in the kitchen gardens.”

Pigs in the garden. That was a first. He doubted the pigs did this damage to his face.

“Explain yourself,” he ordered.

Cuffe’s chin lifted and his deep brown eyes stared off at the mountains. He showed no hint of fear and certainly no suggestion of responding.

“I told the young miscreant to oversee the feeding of the pigs while I got ready for us to go out to the west farms. Next thing I knew, the porkers are running amok, the house is in an uproar, and Cook is rampaging, about as wild as I’ve ever seen her. Threatened to put yer son out for the faeries.”

“How did he get the bruises on his face?”

“A fight, Captain.” Hamish shook his head. “By the time we got the pigs back in their pens, we heard squalling so loud I thought the Bean Nighe—the demon washerwoman herself—was carrying off a bairn. Turned out yer lad was giving three of the farm lads a beating.”

Looking at the injuries, Wynne wondered how bad the others must look.

“And two of them bigger than this one,” the Highlander asserted. “Now, I know lads will scuffle from time to time, but we can’t have the hospital governor’s son beating up the very farm workers he’s supposed to be overseeing.”

There was no point in demanding answers. Wynne was well accustomed to the vow of silence Cuffe had obviously taken when it came to communicating with him. Over the past month, Wynne had managed the disciplining of the boy himself, but perhaps the chores he’d been assigning were not tough enough.

“I’ll leave the issue of punishment for this infraction to you, Hamish.”

Cuffe’s face turned a shade darker, but he refused to look at Wynne.

“Take him,” he ordered the Highlander. “My son needs to understand that if he refuses to present a reasonable defense for his actions, there are consequences to be paid.”

The farm manager led Cuffe off, muttering about mucking shite out of the stables. According to Dermot, Hamish believed that tough, physical labor was the best way to teach and discipline, and maintain self-respect.

Walking along the side of the building toward the north annex, Wynne tried to remember what he’d been like at that age. As a second son, he’d endured the dreary routine of tutors at home while his older brother was away at Eton, and those men had never spared the rod in teaching him discipline. With the exception of developing an aversion for corporal punishment, he’d never questioned his life or the decisions that were made by his parents. He’d always accepted that those in authority knew best.

Years later, a duel fought on a grey London morning—and the long weeks of recovery that followed—had served to awaken him. He was twenty-two then and had been fortunate to see another sunrise.

As Wynne entered the north annex, the bookkeeper, Cameron, appeared at the bottom of a stairwell.

“Dr. McKendry is looking for you, Captain. He’s in his office.”

Telling the former purser that Cuffe would likely be absent from his afternoon lessons, Wynne then ascended the stairs. He walked past his own office—an oasis of order and calm—and entered Dermot’s chaotic workplace. Regardless of the constant nagging of the housekeeper during the weekly cleaning, every surface of the spacious room was covered with papers and folders, and the floor was little better. Textbooks and medical journals were scattered about and piled in corners. Volumes lay open on every available chair and on top of stacks of paper.

Each man had his own method of managing his affairs, and neither interfered with the ways of the other, though Wynne was often sorely tempted by the sight of Dermot’s mess.

Standing at a tall desk by a window, the doctor was inscribing notes in an open ledger. He turned around and tossed the pen on top of the book when he heard Wynne enter.

“You’re back.” He smiled, satisfaction evident on his face. “The most extraordinary circumstances have developed with our new patient.”

“Charles Barton?” Wynne asked. “A change in his condition already?”

“Come and see for yourself.” Dermot came around his desk.

Ten days ago, Charles Barton, fifty-six years of age, arrived at the Abbey emaciated and unresponsive, delivered for permanent care by his aging mother, a local landowner. Her son, Mrs. Barton explained, had arrived home at Tilmory Castle in this condition after sustaining a head injury during an explosion aboard some merchant ship months earlier.

Though the old woman had provided generous financial support to make certain her son would be well cared for in his final days, Dermot believed that Barton’s demise was not imminent.

“I heard an uproar of some kind coming from the direction of the gardens,” the doctor said, as they started down the stairs to the hospital ward.

Wynne nodded. “I understand the pigs had some extra greens in their diet, thanks to Cuffe.”

The men exchanged a look. Nothing more needed to be said. Wynne’s struggles with new parenthood weren’t lost on Dermot. “Well, I’m certain Hamish will have everything back on an even keel in no time.”

“I hope so,” Wynne replied. “I took your aunt’s recommendation and stopped down at the village and spoke to the vicar about providing Cuffe with some religious instruction. It was agreed that an hour a week would⁠—”

“You should have asked Blane McKendry about golfing instruction instead.” Dermot shook his head. “I happen to know that old heathen can teach Cuffe more about niblicks and longnoses than he can about Psalms and Beatitudes.”

Regardless of the weather, the Squire and his brother the vicar met every day to chase their golf balls across the fields.

Wynne and Dermot entered the nearly empty ward. He’d seen many of the patients outside. At the far end of the long and spacious room, two handlers were settling Stevenson, the only unpredictable patient in the hospital. Still in his twenties, the former dockworker from Aberdeen had been diagnosed with “furious mania.” Highly disturbed, he had occasional bouts of violence, and any irritation could upset him. Even now, he was upbraiding the handlers with loud obscenities and clutching his tam protectively to his chest.

Wynne knew it took a special temperament and character to treat lunatics. Dermot would not permit the use of shackles, though they were commonly used elsewhere, and only Stevenson was restrained at night. The doctor believed attempts should be made to cure these men, and short of that, they should at least be allowed to live decently.

Charles Barton, their newest patient, was sitting by a sunny window halfway down the room with a secretary’s desk on his lap. Thin fingers moved a pencil lightly over paper.

“He’s conscious!” Wynne exclaimed.

“More or less,” the doctor said. “He has yet to speak a word.”

The two men crossed the ward to the window, but Barton didn’t look up or acknowledge their presence. The man’s greying curls were bound in a head wrapping, and his pale, sunken cheeks sported a thick beard.

“His mother made no mention of it, but we’ve discovered that Mr. Barton is an accomplished artist,” Dermot told him. “But the fascinating thing is that he likes to draw the same face, the same young woman, over and over.”

The old man’s eyes were fixed on a sheet of paper, his fingers becoming more insistent as he finished with a drawing and reached for a clean sheet.

“I’d like to know the subject of this man’s obsession.” Dermot handed the recently drawn sheet to his friend. “It might help with the patient’s recovery.”

Wynne gazed at the drawing in his hands. He’d seen those dark curls before in a thousand dreams. He’d seen them swept up, and he’d seen them falling gracefully over those slender shoulders. He’d seen those eyes, so precisely angled above the high cheekbones. The delicate nose, the set of the mouth. Those lips.

Recognition struck him like a bolt of lightning. He felt the blood drain from his face. It can’t be, he thought. Alarm and hope battled for dominance.

Wynne picked up another sketch. And then another. He stared at each one in turn. All the same woman. There was no question.

It was only yesterday, the first time they met.

The flushed faces of dancers in their gowns of gold and blue and green, and their evening suits of black, and uniforms of red and blue. Around him, his fellow officers were joking and pointing out prospective brides and conquests.

And then he saw her.

They’d never been introduced, but he knew her by name. She was unlike so many of the young women being presented at Court for the first time, who fought for every glimmer of attention. Even now, standing by the punch bowl, she had a quiet reserve that hinted at sadness. He wondered if she was affected by stories that were beginning to circulate. He didn’t put any stock in gossip, but the talk of her origins was spreading like flames in a dry August meadow.

Groups of partygoers milled about, and several young women halted beside her.

Wynne knew the moment something was said. The warm blush drained from her pretty face and her back stiffened.

Suddenly, she was off, darting through the crowd with the deftness of a bird in flight, until she disappeared through the doors opening onto the terrace.

What possessed him to go, he’d asked himself so many times. He only knew she was upset, she was alone, and he went after her.

“I . . .” Wynne began to speak, but the words were too slow to keep up with his drumming heart and his racing mind. “The woman in these drawings is Josephine Pennington.”

3

Baronsford, the Scottish Borders

May 1818

The drowsy infant’s contented sigh caressed Jo’s heart like a summer breeze. Holding her niece on her lap, she gazed at the long lashes and the round cheeks and pursed, red lips. She didn’t think she’d ever seen a child more beautiful than the Honorable Beatrice Ware Macpherson Pennington, born just two months ago to her brother Hugh and his extraordinary wife, Grace.

“The resemblance is astonishing.”

Jo tore her gaze from the angelic bairn and watched her sister-in-law peruse the portfolio of sketches that had arrived only yesterday from a private asylum in the Highlands.

“These must be drawings of you at a younger age,” Grace asserted, holding one of the pages up to Jo’s face.

Relief rushed through her. Her sister-in-law confirmed what she too had seen. The image definitely bore a close resemblance to her.

“Look at the tilt of the eyes. The shape of the brow. The reserved smile. Even the expression on her face as she looks away. You do the same whenever you’re the center of attention.”

Everything Grace said was true. Upon opening the parcel, Jo had been dumbfounded. She couldn’t recollect when these sketches might have been done of her. But she’d quickly noticed the differences. The loose curls that draped over the woman’s shoulders. The dated style of her dress, long before Jo’s own time. One of the drawings depicted a worn mountain peak in the background. At no time in Jo’s youth had she ever visited such a place, though of course, it might have just been a whim in the mind of the artist.

But the similarities were undeniable, and Jo was struggling to repress the buoyant feeling of hope rising in her chest. The possibility existed that these sketches might lead to an answer she’d been pursuing all her life.

“But you don’t think they’re pictures of you?”

Jo shook her head. “No, I’m certain they’re not.”

Grace paged through the drawings, looking at each one. “And these were sent by whom?”

“A physician named Dermot McKendry,” she replied. “He writes that he’s the director of the Abbey, a licensed private asylum near Aberdeen. His letter refers to an elder gentleman under his care. The man doesn’t speak, nor does he acknowledge anyone around him. He simply spends his waking hours rendering likenesses such as these.”

“Of other people as well?”

“No. His mind is apparently fixed on this particular woman.”

Grace laid the pictures aside and leaned toward Jo to adjust the soft blanket framing the baby’s face. “Did Dr. McKendry mention the name of his patient?”

“No, he didn’t.”

Jo’s nerves were getting the better of her. Grace, well aware of her friend’s need to move when she was troubled or thinking, took her daughter back. Jo immediately rose to her feet.

“But what made this doctor think that these were likeness of you, aside from the obvious resemblance? Do you know him?”

“I don’t believe so. But even though he doesn’t explain in his letter, we’ve had many women who’ve come through Baronsford, staying at the Tower House until they were able to find employment. Many came from the Highlands and returned there. Any number of them could have found a position at the Abbey.”

Jo began pacing across the brightly lit library. Aberdeen. Thirty-seven years ago, her own mother had been in the company of cotters who’d been cleared off the land in the Highlands and were passing through. Perhaps she was from the area. Perhaps Jo’s origins lay in Aberdeen. After crossing back to Grace, she picked up one of the sketches.

“You’re hoping that the young woman in these drawings is your mother,” her friend said.

There were no secrets between them. Grace was one of the only people that she had ever opened her heart to. Regardless of the years that had passed and all the philanthropic projects Jo had used to give her life purpose, the mystery of her birth was as painful today as it was when she first recognized the ramifications of her dubious origins.

“Write back to the doctor,” Grace suggested. “Ask for more details. Perhaps he’ll reveal the name of this patient.”

Jo shook her head. She’d tried to learn more about her mother before and had run up against blank walls. This was the first potential clue ever, regarding the woman who gave birth to her. Perhaps these drawings would lead her to a family connection. No, she couldn’t leave it to chance. She couldn’t allow Dr. McKendry’s patient to slip away.

“I need to go there. I want to meet this elder gentleman.”

“But what do you know of Dr. McKendry?” Grace asked. “Or this asylum, the Abbey?”

“Nothing. And I do understand that I’m building a castle of hope on a foundation of sand. Still, I can’t waste this chance. I’ll not err on the side of caution. Not this time.”

No woman Jo had ever met had lived through more dangers than her sister-in-law. No one in her acquaintance was more courageous than the young mother seated before her. Grace had seen the bloody battlefields of France and Spain, and endured a sea crossing between Antwerp and Baronsford trapped in a wooden crate. She was a survivor. Jo prayed that her friend would see this for what it was, a simple journey to the Highlands.

“You know your brother,” Grace said doubtfully. “Hugh will insist that you delay such a trip until he knows everything there is to know about Dr. McKendry, the Abbey, and his patients.”

She was correct. Hugh would try to stop her. Jo loved her brother, respected him. And in his view of life, knowledge was always empowering. As Lord Justice of the Commissary Court in Edinburgh, he never acted impulsively. Add to that the protectiveness he felt for her, and she knew he would make this trip impossible.

Jo recognized she’d created a dilemma for her friend by telling Grace her intentions. She didn’t want to drive a wedge into the bond of trust between husband and wife.

In Sutherland, a few days’ ride north of Aberdeen, their younger brother and his wife were expecting their first child. Jo had planned to go and help them. She’d simply stop in at this asylum en route.

“Hugh knows I’m going north to see Gregory and Freya at Torrishbrae,” she said, taking a seat beside Grace. “I’m leaving a bit earlier, and I’ll be perfectly safe. I’ll be traveling with a maid and a driver and a footman.”

“You promised Phoebe that you’d wait until she arrives from Hertfordshire before traveling north. She’s planning on coming with you.”

“My sister is unreliable when it comes to her plans. Any day now I expect a letter from her containing a long list of excuses of why she is delayed. She might not get here until that babe is walking.”

With secret dreams of being a writer, Phoebe lived in a world of her own. The realities of ordered schedules and family obligations held little importance.

“Aberdeen is on the way to Sutherland,” Jo said. “My stop at the Abbey will be brief.”

“I still think you should tell Hugh about the letter and the sketches,” Grace insisted. “And your intended visit to this asylum.”

“You can tell him,” Jo told her. “But wait until I am already on the road.”

4

With each Thursday market, the sleepy Highland village of Rayneford came alive, drawing cotters and tradesmen and vendors from the entire region. The market was especially busy this time of year, with the agents of coastal merchants crisscrossing the Highlands to buy newly shorn wool.

So when the Squire mentioned he’d seen Cuffe traipsing across the fields toward the village, Wynne told himself that he shouldn’t have been surprised. Market day certainly offered more to interest a boy than Cameron’s lessons and his long columns of sums.

Still, as he rode toward the village, he reminded himself that he had a responsibility to keep his son on the right path. But doing it was becoming more difficult all the time.

Nearly two months had passed since Cuffe’s arrival, and a single week didn’t pass now without some complaint about him from Hamish or Cameron. The lad was becoming quite proficient at dodging his lessons. He simply didn’t show up, disappearing during the hours designated for instruction. It was the same for his time with the vicar.

Whatever admiration Wynne once had for his spirited nature, that feeling had gradually dwindled to discontent and annoyance. But whatever complaints the others voiced, they paled in comparison with his own disappointment regarding their father-and-son relationship. Or rather, their lack of it.

Wynne continued to be a blank space in his son’s world. Cuffe didn’t speak to him—not to complain or to engage in the most mundane conversation. He could draw no response of any kind from him—no reaction to praise or to discipline, no acknowledgment whatsoever that he even existed. The ten-year-old ignored him entirely, and that was more irritating than he would ever have imagined.

A cart approached from the direction of the village, the piles of wool fleece it had delivered to the market replaced by supplies for the Abbey’s kitchen. Wynne exchanged a few words of greeting with the driver and his young helper. The lad was about the same age as Cuffe.

Seeing the boy opened another door of worry. Since arriving from Jamaica, his son had made no friends at all, as far as he could tell.

Cuffe’s mother Fiba was of African descent, and Wynne had made certain everyone knew the lad was his son and heir. This hadn’t helped him make friends with the younger farm hands, to be sure. He fully intended him to grow up as a gentleman, and his name and wealth made Cuffe the superior of anyone his own age within miles of the Abbey.

To remedy this, the vicar had made numerous attempts to introduce him to other boys of his rank in the area. Cuffe hadn’t shown up.

He was a loner, an outsider, an elusive spirit who preferred to retreat rather than try to accept his new role in this society.

As Wynne rode along the river toward the stone bridge leading into the village, he realized he was not only thinking of Cuffe. Two people matched that ‘loner’ description. His son was one and Jo Pennington was the other.

Her letter to Dermot had arrived yesterday. Jo was expected to reach the Abbey tomorrow or the next day.

Wynne tried to turn his mind to the hills, to the lowering grey sky, to the passing folk who demonstrated the liveliness of fairgoers. But it wasn’t working. She was on his mind.

He owed her, even after all this time. If a connection existed between Jo and Charles Barton, she had the right to know. He wanted her to know.

Dermot had been excited about Wynne’s suggestion of sending off the drawings. It could be of immense help to his patient if Lady Josephine were indeed the woman depicted in them. And he’d asked no questions when Wynne told him it was necessary that he remain anonymous and even absent himself during her visit. Each man respected the judgment and privacy of the other. While she was here, he would go to Dundee.

The patient had showed no further improvement. The elderly gentleman still could not care for himself. Barton had yet to speak a word or show an understanding of anything being said to him. Nonetheless, day after day, as long as he was in possession of pencil and paper, he drew. And the sketches were all the same. They were a depiction of Jo Pennington or someone who looked eerily similar to her.

When Wynne first saw Barton’s drawings, years had folded in on themselves like a paper troublewit puzzle, forming and reforming memories in the blink of a moment. Even though he’d spent the years after their broken engagement sailing the seas and fighting the French and the Americans, he still knew a great deal about Jo and the life she’d led. She never married, instead, devoting her time to a number of benevolent causes, even starting a facility that housed destitute women and their children.

Wynne’s older brother and his wife had purchased an estate in the Borders, only a short distance from Baronsford. The Penningtons were frequently mentioned in his sister-in-law’s letters.