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It Happened in the Highlands(4)

By:May McGoldrick


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."





Chapter 2


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.