Wynne's gaze was drawn to her face as she tucked a strand of loose hair behind an ear. The blush rose again into her cheek, and he wondered if the mention of her family was the cause of it.
"I heard your son is only ten years old," she said, stepping past him as he paused in a doorway to allow her through. "With enough time and patience-and the right amount of encouragement-I'm certain he'll come to embrace his new home."
"One would hope." Wynne wasn't about to rail at her about the impracticality of idealism. Her words made the situation sound far simpler to resolve than the reality. They'd nearly reached the north annex. "But have you ever been in the position of dealing with a child in such circumstances? Or been exposed to the difficulties that can present themselves?"
"I have. But I grant you, not in the role of a parent. However, I've been involved with many horrific family situations, and I've provided whatever was needed to help."
Seeing the footman standing by to let them into the ward, Wynne motioned for him to wait.
"Where was that?"
"At a shelter we refer to as the Tower House, near Baronsford."
"Was there ever a child wholly under your care?" he asked.
"Never wholly. The residents share in the responsibilities. It's part of the mission of the place. But I imagine you too must have the help of tutors and any number of people to help you with your son."
The argument simmering within him had no rhyme or reason other than Wynne wanted to believe that he'd done everything he could possibly do. He'd been patient, persistent, generous, and still there was a boy upstairs who'd cut through all of his confidence and made him feel like a failure.
"I'm sure raising and educating a son who must already think himself a man is not easy. Children can be complicated creatures," she said gently. "I've come to believe that no two are the same. But as long as you're willing, and you value your son as the treasure that I'm certain he is, the path will reveal itself."
The kindness and compassion, the calm temperament, the reasonable approach. She could always change the darkness to light and chase away any rain cloud. Her voice warmed him even now with its quiet assurance. During the time they had been betrothed, they never argued. Jo knew his moods, recognized his moments of sadness, read his thoughts when he was troubled.
"Shall we go in?" she asked.
Wynne trailed after her, realizing that already the weight of dealing with Cuffe's behavior was lessening. He didn't need to decide on one ultimate punishment. There was no one solution to fix what was wrong. He shouldn't second-guess the decisions that were made in the past. Today was simply another day amid many more days of challenge.
The ward was busy, with most of the patients having returned from activities that took them and the attendants outside. While a few sat by windows, staring out idly, most were joined in a number of social pastimes, with games of chess and draughts and backgammon being played at tables.
Wynne watched Jo taking all of this in. When a patient named Fyffe-a harmless fellow from Nairn-waltzed around them as he played his imaginary fiddle, she smiled sweetly at him and waited until he'd danced away.
She showed no fear or awkwardness at all about the strangeness of the place.
He gestured across the room.
"That's Charles Barton in the bed," he told her quietly. "The two older people across from Dr. McKendry are his mother and his uncle, his only living family. They live at Tilmory Castle, not four miles from here."
Jo looked across. "I don't recognize any of them."
Dermot paused in what he was saying when he saw them.
As Jo and Wynne started across the ward, the relatives standing at the patient's bedside looked at them.
For a moment he thought they'd turned to pillars of salt. Like Lot's wife, they stood like statues, gazing at Jo with expressions of shock. Slowly, Mrs. Barton's mouth opened, and a confused and horrified look came into her eyes. Graham shook his head, as if to shake off a vision that he could not account for. As if seeing a ghost that had suddenly appeared in broad daylight, the two stared in disbelief.
Then Barton's uncle regained control of his features, the customary hardness returning to his face. But his mother was slower to recover her composure, weakly reaching out and clutching at the old man's hand as she sank down heavily onto a chair.
* * *
They knew her.
The seeds of hope cast upon her heart when Jo first saw the drawings at Baronsford sprouted and took root, sending up shoots and spreading tender green leaves. Mrs. Barton's bloodless face, the trembling fingers pressing a handkerchief to her lips, the hooded gaze constantly flitting from her son to Jo to the old man standing beside her, every movement indicated familiarity, recognition.
Jo forced herself to breathe. This woman sitting in an asylum deep in the Highlands, and the man standing rigidly beside her, held the key to the mystery of her past. The mere possibility that her lifelong pursuit of her mother's identity could end with a simple introduction to these people nearly overwhelmed her.
Excitement buoyed her as she neared the patient's bedside. The years of speculating where she'd come from, the never-ending mission of defending her late mother could all come to a close in the next moment.
"Lady Josephine Pennington, may I introduce Mrs. Barton and Graham Barton," Dr. McKendry said.
The courtesies were exchanged, but the young tendrils of hope and anticipation were immediately knocked askew by the old man's icy glare. Mrs. Barton's response was no warmer. A mask had descended over her pallid features. And after the introductions were complete, the woman shifted her gaze toward Charles, effectually shutting out everyone else.
A hard, tight knot of panic began to form in Jo's chest. Those seedlings of hope wilted, their growth arrested by the rough cold wind of the Bartons' response. A silent cry rose in her throat. She wanted them to look at her again, to give her some sign that they shared a tangible relation, a connection, something hard and fast and true. Instead, she was facing a wall of stony disregard. They'd hastily covered their involuntary moment of surprise and recognition with a cold veneer of indifference and hostility.
But Jo saw through them. She'd faced rejection her entire life.
"As I was saying before Lady Josephine and Captain Melfort joined us, this new development offers great promise," Dr. McKendry explained. "Since we reduced the dosage of laudanum, Mr. Barton has displayed a distinct desire to communicate with us, in his own way, through the sketches."
He reached behind him and fetched a portfolio from a nearby table, presenting it to the mother.
"This is all his work. Drawings of the same person. Someone who closely resembles Lady Josephine."
The doctor made a vague explanation of how, through a mutual acquaintance, he was able to identify Jo as the possible subject of the drawings before corresponding with her.
That mutual acquaintance he referred to stood beside Jo, his grey coat brushing against the sleeve of her dress. It was true they'd been alienated for years, but at this moment she felt no strangeness about Wynne's presence, stalwart and steadfast as the oldest of friends. And she welcomed his company. He, perhaps more than anyone, understood the significance of this connection. She had no doubt he was the reason Dr. McKendry reached out to her.
"Is it possible you've all met before?" the doctor suggested. "If you'll take a look at the drawings, you'll see the resemblance is astonishing."
Mrs. Barton opened the portfolio, paged carelessly through a few of the drawings, and closed it. Her face showed nothing as she glanced up at her brother-in-law.
Jo waited for an answer, too anxious to speak, still clinging to her fading hopes.
"Never have," Graham said, speaking for the two of them.
Jo could not gather herself enough to say anything; the knot in her throat precluded it. Their faces, when they saw her, conveyed a clear sense of recognition and then dismay. But why would they deny that now? They were holding back, hiding behind a façade of aloofness. There was some hidden history that these two were reluctant to address.
They knew her mother. Jo had no doubt of it.
Mrs. Barton handed the portfolio back to the doctor. "These drawings suggest no individual person. They could be anyone. They're images conjured by a delusional mind. I believe you've allowed a very slight resemblance to your friend Lady Josephine to influence your opinion." She pointed at her son. "It breaks my heart. But look at him, staring at nothing, completely disconnected from us and the world. You're wrong if you think he's improved, and I fail to see why you've involved her ladyship in a family tragedy where she has no business."