It Happened in the Highlands(40)

"I met Mr. Ezekiel Sellar, a distant cousin and a decent man," she told  him, reminding Charles of who he was. She conveyed the kind words the  older gentleman had said about him and his father, Ainsley Barton.

"So now I know how we're related, the Bartons and Sellars."

Perhaps it was her imagination, but Jo thought she felt a gentle squeeze of her hand.

"You and Josephine were cousins. You must have seen each other many  times while you were growing up. Perhaps you shared the same interests,"  Jo suggested, wondering how many times those two had held hands. "And I  now know that she moved to Tilmory Castle when she lost her own  parents, which explains why you knew her features so well that you can  draw her now, nearly forty years later. We never forget those we care  about the most, do we?"

The smile, the laughter, the dark eyes dancing with the expression of a  woman who knew she was adored. The sketches of Josephine depicted a  young woman who was loved.

"I think you two must have cared for each other deeply."

Jo had no right to assume more than that. She couldn't speculate wildly  and persuade herself there was more between them. Her mother was lost to  her. She wouldn't convince herself that Charles Barton was her father,  only to have it come to nothing. She hadn't come to the Highlands to  find him.

"Mr. Sellar showed me my mother's grave today," she said sadly. "He didn't really know her or care for her as you did."

She pulled her hands away and gathered her knees to her chest.

"I didn't tell him the truth about the grave. It would have only  unsettled him. But you have a right to know. Josephine isn't buried in  the churchyard in Garloch. She didn't die in the flood. She survived.  And then she ran from her people as far as she could go."

Her thoughts drifted to the image of her mother from the stories she'd collected over the years.

"Josephine Sellar, little more than a girl herself, turned her back on  her home and her kin and traveled, heavy with child, like a pauper with  other desperate and friendless folk driven out of the Highlands." The  words struggled to get past the fist gripping her throat, but she forced  them out all the same. "They said she mentioned no man she was going  to, and no husband left behind. She died holding her daughter in one arm  and clutching the hand of the kind and loving woman who took me in and  raised me."

She stabbed at a tear that splashed onto her face . . . and then another and then another.

"I believe you thought she died and was buried in Garloch. But  someday-when you're better, I'll take you to the Borders, to the village  of Melrose. There in the kirkyard, I'll show you where Josephine  Sellar, my mother, is buried."

She heard footsteps downstairs and knew Wynne was coming up. Jo lifted  her chin off her knees and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself.  She couldn't fall apart. Not right now. Not when this man needed her.

The beam of light had shifted with the movement of the sun, and she stared at Charles Barton.

Tears ran unimpeded down his face, and he slowly reached out and took her hand in his.





Chapter 22


Wynne stared at the painting above the mantle of the library at Tilmory  Castle. It was a depiction, done in the grand style of the last century,  of Julius Caesar being assassinated in the Roman Senate. The irony was  not lost on him.

The afternoon sun was rapidly slipping toward the hills in the west, and  he wondered how long it would be before Mrs. Barton and Graham arrived  from the Abbey. It didn't matter, he decided. He was ready for what lay  ahead.

"Cry ‘Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war," he murmured, moving to a window overlooking the front courtyard.

Tilmory Castle, with its warlike, red stone exterior, presented itself  far differently on the inside. Centuries old, the castle had been  renovated only decades ago, and the interior had clearly been designed  to convey the feeling of wealth and power. Reputed to be one the richest  estates in the area east of the Grampians, the farms had long ago been  cleared of tenants to make room for the more lucrative raising of sheep.  The display of artwork, books, fine furniture, and other luxuries  demonstrated the success of that strategy, in spite of the sometimes  unrestrained shows of force it took to achieve it.                       
       
           



       

But it was the behavior of the staff that gave Wynne greatest pause.

In his time in the navy, he'd seen ships commanded by cruel men. The use  of the lash and deprivation of rations in the hands of a sadistic  captain often made for a disciplined but disheartened crew. Men  accustomed to mistreatment did what was required, but with a slack and  sullen manner, and they did nothing beyond it. It was the same here.

From the moment he climbed out of the carriage, he'd seen the sidelong  looks of fearful, unhappy servants. Without meaning to, they projected  the attitudes of whipped dogs, slinking about, disappearing around  corners, answering questions when asked in the most hesitant manner,  averting their faces when they came in to light candles. The workers at  Tilmory Castle were afraid, and they'd been that way for a long time.

Wynne was still standing at the window when the Bartons' carriage rolled  to a stop in front of the entrance. Graham stepped out and offered a  hand to Mrs. Barton, who ignored him and hurried toward the door with  agility that belied her age.

Dermot was to tell them that Wynne had found their son and was  delivering him personally to Tilmory Castle, where he would await their  return. He could only imagine how they must have received the message.

Only a moment later, the library door opened, and Mrs. Barton barreled into the room, with Graham on her heels.

She overlooked Wynne's greeting, her eyes immediately finding her son sitting quietly at the desk near the door.

"I've never been faced with such appalling negligence and ill-treatment.  If my son were not waiting for us here, we would have taken the Abbey  down, stone by stone. And we may do that yet." She went closer to  Barton. "He looks pale as death. What kind of ordeal did you put him  through? Why couldn't you bring him back to the Abbey?"

Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Barton's uncle. "Put him in the carriage. I want him taken directly to Aberdeen."

"It's far too late in the day," Graham told her. "Tomorrow is time enough."

Mrs. Barton glanced impatiently out the window at the late afternoon  light, and then waved a hand imperiously in the air. "Call in the  servants. Have him put to bed. Tomorrow at first light, Graham, you'll  take him." She whirled toward Wynne. "We have nothing more to do with  you, Captain. Our business is finished. Pray convey our dissatisfaction  to Dr. McKendry regarding the management of what you claim to be an  asylum. You'll receive no favorable recommendation from us, I assure  you. Now get out."

When no one moved, she turned to Graham, who was staring across the room.

"Lady Josephine," he said with a curt bow. "We were told you'd already gone north."

Mrs. Barton swung around, her expression furious as Jo moved away from a bookcase.

"I did go north," she said calmly, holding a volume to her chest. "But only to Garloch."

"You!" the older woman breathed with a tone of accusation.

This was the way Jo wanted it, to stay in the shadows until these two were secure in their own lair.

"After all these years, I was glad to know where my mother was born and  baptized. I had to see it with my own eyes. Captain Melfort was kind  enough to help me find what I was looking for," Jo said, nodding with  gratitude in Wynne's direction. "He's been instrumental in going through  the records at the rectory in Garloch and at the offices of the bishop  in Aberdeen. Thank heaven we are such dedicated record keepers in our  modern age. One cannot rely on rumor alone."

Silence deadened the room. And then Graham closed the door as she continued.

"In Garloch I visited with some old friends of my mother's, and I had  the opportunity of speaking with her cousin Ezekiel Sellar. He sends his  best wishes to you, sir. He was heartily sorry he hasn't seen you since  you sold Josephine Sellar's property to him."

There'd been a time when Jo would not stand up to her enemies or even  allow anyone else to fight her battles. That time was long gone, Wynne  thought proudly. A different woman stood in this room now.

"And we stopped at the grave. But we all know she's not the one buried there."                       
       
           



       

She was ignoring Mrs. Barton's expression of scoffing disdain, but kept  her gaze on Graham. And when she spoke again, her abhorrence spilled out  with every word.