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."
* * *
Because a group of army officers traveling through had already engaged the private dining room at the coaching inn, Wynne and Jo were seated in the public room, which suited them perfectly. He'd convinced her that they should have their dinner in Garloch before making a final decision about staying or going back to the Abbey.
"But what about Cuffe?" Jo asked, speaking over the noise of the villagers, as well as a crowd of travelers who'd stopped to eat while the coach horses were being changed.
"The lad will be fine. I left Dermot in charge of him, and the good doctor takes that responsibility very seriously. I didn't mention it before, but thanks to you and his success reading in the ward, Cuffe has agreed to follow Dermot about as he attends to his duties."
"I imagine Dr. McKendry would be an enthusiastic teacher."
A waiter arrived with their steaks and fish.
Wynne was tempted to make a humorous comment regarding his former rival's enthusiasm, but he could no longer do it. He had Jo's affection, and that was all that mattered.
"Dermot can be relied upon to give my son every attention."
As they ate, Jo grew silent, and that worried him. He didn't interrupt her thoughts, though. He knew her mind had to be roiling with everything that had happened today-from their conversation in the carriage to the information they'd collected at the rectory. And with regard to her mother, she still had no definitive answers.
He'd proposed and she'd accepted. He was only moderately concerned about her family accepting their decision, but they needed to consider how they were going to arrange their lives together. He didn't want her to feel she must make a sacrifice to adapt her life to his, but he didn't want to set the dust of the past swirling about her either. And that would happen if they were to live in London or the Borders.
Sixteen years ago the uncertainty of her birth was the source of her unhappiness. Today they were looking at many doors, and Wynne would do whatever was necessary to help her open every one.
"If we were to stay, meeting all these people tomorrow could produce nothing," she said finally, laying down her knife. "All I can ask them is what happened to your Josephine. But what would induce them to answer such a question? I have nothing to offer in return for their family confidences."
Wynne could understand her hesitation. Still, he found himself arguing against it.
"You might never come this close again," he told her. "And time will inevitably diminish your chances of finding the truth. Tomorrow-if we stay-we can attend the service, go through some introductions, ask the questions, and return to the Abbey. I've already spoken to the innkeeper, and he's put aside two rooms for us if we choose to take them."
Jo began to say something, but stopped. Her gaze was fixed on something behind him and a faint blush was rising into her cheek.
"I'm being stared at."
Wynne turned and looked. Sure enough, a middle-aged woman stood by the door, clutching a large canvas bag and gaping in their direction.
"I believe she knows me," Jo said, getting to her feet.
Wynne stood as the woman approached.
"My apologies for being so forward, m'lady. Captain." She curtsied, and they learned she was Mrs. Clark.
"I happened to run into Mr. Kealy just now, and he told me about yer interest in the name. Told me ye'd likely be here. Naturally, I had to take a peek." The woman pressed a hand to her chest. "Laying eyes on ye from a distance, m'lady . . . for a moment I was dead certain. You're so much younger than her, of course. Ah, but I know it must be a mistake. My eyes ain't what they once were."
"Would you care to join us, Mrs. Clark?" Wynne offered his seat.
She glanced back at the door. "Thank ye, Captain, but no. I've two more deliveries that need to be made, and my old man is waiting outside. The curate said ye might be coming around to the service tomorrow. Perhaps we can chat then."
"Will you at least tell me who it is you thought I resemble?" Jo asked as the woman turned to leave.
Mrs. Clark studied Jo's face in silence for few heartbeats before she spoke.