It Happened in the Highlands(30)

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.

"I'm not," he replied, smiling down into her upturned face. "Does it still make you feel better?"

"Much better. Thank you." Her bright eyes glistened with unshed tears.  "I've put so much hope into finding an answer. And now, as the  possibility of learning the truth becomes stronger, I feel so unsure.  It's no longer simply an issue of knowing. What happens if I don't like  the answer?"

"Does it matter?" he asked. "Whatever you learn today or tomorrow or  next year, it doesn't change who you are. And it won't change anything  for those who love you."

Jo smiled and nodded.

"We all need to do what we know is right," he continued. "Travel the  road that we must. Even say the words that we should have said long ago.  You're doing it. You're chasing an answer that means something  important to you. But if you find nothing at the end of this journey,  you've lost nothing in the search."

He lifted her chin and wiped away a tear from her cheek.

"You are closer now than ever before, Jo."

"I know," she agreed, appearing to be satisfied.

Retracing their steps, they'd just reached the stone wall of the  kirkyard when a thin young man wearing a dark suit and waistcoat came  hurrying down the path toward them.

The curate hailed them and introduced himself. The old man they'd spoken  to earlier had informed him strangers were waiting for him.

Wynne handed Mr. Kealy the letter of introduction provided by Dermot's uncle, and the curate quickly scanned the contents.

"It will be my pleasure to assist you in any way I can, m'lady," he  said, directing his words at Jo as he glanced at a pocket watch.  "Unfortunately, I have only a few minutes at present. I have a previous  commitment I must honor, but I can help you once I have fulfilled that  obligation."

"Of course. But could you tell us if you do have records that might help us?" she asked.

"We do indeed. And I've been particularly diligent during my tenure  here." Kealy paused and looked at Wynne. "I must say, however, that  hasn't always been the case. Sadly, I know of one curate in recent years  who was . . . well, less devoted, shall we say?"

Wynne and Jo exchanged a look as the young man motioned for them to follow him up the path toward the church.

The curate turned to her again. "What is it exactly that you hope to find, m'lady?"

"I'd like to start by looking up the name of a gentleman who may have  some connection with Garloch. I can also supply the gentleman's age, if  that helps."

Passing through a gate into the cemetery, Wynne was struck by the inordinately large number of graves.

"We keep records of birth, baptisms, marriages, and burials in a secure  box with two locks," Kealy told them. "Everyone in the parish is there.  Since the change in the law six years ago, we've used the official  registers from the King's Printer, and once a year I send a duplicate  copy of our records to the office in Aberdeen."

"And how far back do these records date?" Wynne asked him.

"Well, with the exception of my predecessor, the curates and rectors  have kept exceptional records going back to the years before the union     . So, well over a century, I'd say."

The young man paused and looked thoughtfully at the graves around them.  Many of the older stone markers nearest the church had fallen or were  askew.                       
       
           



       

"But of course, one must discount the damage caused by the great flood.  And there's no telling how accurately the records were kept immediately  following it."

"The great flood?" Jo asked.

"Not Noah's flood, m'lady, but a terrible version of it that struck  Garloch, folks say. It was well before my time, but parishioners talk of  it still. The churchyard was inundated. You can see the damage to the  stones here. The water even reached the church, and the vestry was badly  damaged. Actually, we're fortunate the record box wasn't lost  entirely."

"When was this flood?" Wynne took Jo's hand in his, remembering Charles Barton's agitation about Jo drowning.

"Let me see." The curate stared at the sky for a few moments as if  trying to recall the year. "I'm embarrassed to say I can't tell you,  but-"

"Do you have an approximate year?" Jo persisted.

The young man glanced past the older graves.

"This way, if you please." He motioned for them to follow. "Quite a few  died in that flood. And not just villagers, so I understand. Innocent  folk traveling through were caught unawares and swept away. Many were  buried in that section over there."

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.