By Thursday morning Jo still hadn’t informed her hosts about her difficult decision to leave in two days for Torrishbrae. She’d only intended to stop briefly as she passed through. But as she looked at the patients enjoying the spring sunshine and busying themselves around the pond closest to the Abbey buildings, Jo could almost feel the invisible ties that had already formed.

Sitting on a blanket on the lee side of a large boulder, she looked at Charles Barton. The bruises from last week’s attack were fading, and thankfully, there were no lasting effects. He was drawing furiously beside her. Her task was to put each drawing on the growing stack beneath the rock they were using to secure the sheets of paper against the breeze. Mr. Fyffe danced by, sawing away at his imaginary fiddle, and Mr. Stevenson was sitting calmly by a host of daffodils, an attendant lounging on either side of him. A dozen other men were spread along the edge of the pond, fishing poles in hand.

The peculiarities in the behavior of the patients in the annex had become less and less strange to her. Jo was surprised how quickly one came to accept their quirks and their difference. While she was watching them, a shout drew her gaze across the pond as a patient landed a trout, which flopped and flashed on the grass in the sunlight, to the delight of all.

Hamish, the farm manager, greeted her as he and an assistant went by, inspecting the banks of the pond as he made his way toward the small dam. Normally, Cuffe would have been with him on such an occasion, but he was otherwise engaged this morning with his father.

Her companion interrupted her thoughts, handing her another drawing, which she dutifully secured.

The Squire and his wife were unrelenting in their efforts to press their nephew’s matrimonial case, but Jo sensed that Dr. McKendry was having too good a time playing the role of a rejected suitor when he had an audience. The air of exaggeration in his suffering reminded Jo of comic performances at the theatre in Drury Lane. Still, his family’s warmth and hospitality were exceeded only by their unintentional social blunders and their fondness for local gossip.

Jo had formed attachments here, to be sure, but more than any of the others, it was almost unbearable to think of leaving Wynne and Cuffe. They needed time, however, for themselves.

The father-and-son conversation they’d shared at Knockburn Hall had marked a new chapter for both of them. Last night, Cuffe even decided to join the family for dinner. And now this morning, they had ridden together to the village for the Thursday market.

Jo was glad they had gone alone. They’d both asked her to accompany them, but as much as she wanted to go, she couldn’t. By not going, she was giving the two a chance to build their relationship. These times together were critical for them, and she would not allow herself to intrude.

The ache that gnawed at her when she thought of leaving was back. The brief time she and Wynne spent together had rekindled the spark inside that had never died. But perhaps this didn’t need to be a permanent farewell. She felt better thinking that nothing was to hinder her from stopping back here in a month or so when she was returning to Baronsford.

Twice a day she’d been sitting with Charles Barton, searching for any clue he might have about her mother, but nothing more had revealed itself. She wasn’t giving up, though. She could only hope he would continue to improve by the time she returned.

And when it came to Wynne, she wasn’t about to interpret his behavior toward her as anything more than friendship. The momentary burst of passion they shared in the garden was simply a fleeting impulse on both their parts. It was a good thing that he’d made no further overtures, because she didn’t trust her own heart. Perhaps when she was gone, however, distance and a month’s time apart would afford them a clearer perspective on the reality of their situation.

She was deep in these meditations when Charles Barton tried to hand her another drawing. Without warning the paper flew off in the breeze and went sailing toward the water. Jo jumped up, waved off a nearby attendant, and scrambled after the sketch. She chased it down and grabbed the paper at the top of the embankment before it flew off across the glistening surface.

Looking at this latest drawing, Jo was astonished to see that for the first time, the depiction was not of a young woman who resembled her. It was Jo herself. The braid pinned at the back of her head, the lines around the smiling mouth that indicated her age, the style of the clothing. Charles had drawn the dress and spencer jacket and shawl she had on today. Even the matching velvet and lace cap that was presently sitting on the blanket was discernable in her hand.

Hope softened the clenched fist of disappointment she’d come to accept. She turned and found the older man watching her.

“You see me,” she said, smiling. “You’re drawing me.”

Maybe it was her imagination, but she would have sworn she saw the slightest of nods and understanding in his eyes.

He was responding. Could it be the fog he’d been lost in was lifting?

Suddenly, the dancing fiddler came out of nowhere and inadvertently grazed Jo’s shoulder as he whirled past.

Her flailing arms were of no use as she slipped backward. It was too late. Her heel caught on something and then she stepped back into space. She hit the water like a felled tree and sank beneath the surface. The coldness of the pond shocked her and she swallowed a mouthful of water. Jo was a capable swimmer, but there was no need for such skills. Once she got her legs under her and stood up, the water barely reached her chest. She would have had no trouble getting out of the pond if it weren’t for two men leaping in after her.

The wild shouts from the nearest man stunned her.

“Jo . . . Jo . . . save Jo.” Charles Barton yelled, waving his arms in desperation. Right behind him, Hamish was up to his waist and shouting to the attendants to fetch blankets and help.

“Save Jo,” Barton cried out, driving through the water to reach her.

He’d seen her. He was calling her name.

“I’m right here,” she said, pushing hair and grass out of her face and taking the man’s hand. “Nothing has happened. I am with you. Right here with you.”

Hamish grabbed the older man from behind and tried to steer him toward other attendants rushing over to help.

Barton fought him and cried out in an anguished voice. “No . . . Jo! Garloch!”

She waded after him, not wanting to let him go. It broke her heart to see him so upset.

Hamish and an attendant dragged Charles toward a more gradual bank to help him out of the water. All the while, the older man continued to cry out and she struggled to get to him. Jo was about to climb out of the pond herself when Wynne was there, splashing into the water and wrapping a blanket around her shoulders.

In the distance, Jo could still hear Charles Barton shouting the same words over and over.

“Garloch! Garloch!”

* * *

“Captain Melfort is pacing the hall like a bear, m’lady,” Anna said, not even trying to hide her delight as she hurriedly braided Jo’s wet hair. “The man may take the door down if we don’t hurry. And the doctor is out there too, arguing that he should see you first, him being the medical man and all.”

They’d both have to wait, Jo thought. She was perfectly fine. A quick dip in a fish pond in the month of May was no worse than swimming in the chilly waters of the River Tweed, and she’d been doing that since she was a child. She was made of hardier stock than these two gave her credit for.

Dried and dressed and again presentable, she stepped out of her room a few minutes later and found the two men still patrolling the corridor. Dr. McKendry was the first to reach her.

“You look terribly pale, m’lady. This has been a shock. You should undoubtedly be in bed. The last thing we want is this turning into brain fever. Allow me to—”

“Brain fever? Now I am certain that Edinburgh medical college taught you nothing about treating humans,” Wynne barked, shouldering him out of the way. “You can leave Lady Jo in my hands. She looks perfectly well. But I believe one of those shaggy red cows wandering about may need you.”

“Being governor of the hospital hardly makes you a medical expert.”

“And what kind of expertise allows you to jump from a dunking in a fish pond to brain fever? Have you even spoken with the patient to ask how she is?”

“There it is,” Dermot crowed. “You admit she’s a patient. In which case Lady Josephine is under my care.”

The door behind her opened and Anna appeared with her arms full of Jo’s wet clothing. Seeing the gathering in the hallway, she quickly changed her mind and disappeared inside again.

“If I may, gentlemen,” Jo said, using the momentary pause in the men’s bickering to interject. “I’m in perfect health, Doctor, and I assure you there is no need for medical treatment. But far more important, I’m worried about Mr. Barton. How is he?”

Wynne stood next to Jo and glared at Dermot, as if demanding an answer on her behalf.

“Other than his frenzied concern for you, he appears to have weathered the incident fairly well. Hamish brought him back to the ward and stayed with him until he became calmer. As I was coming up here, one of the attendants was helping Barton into dry clothing.”

The door behind her opened a little, and her maid peeked out. Before Jo could tell her that it was safe to go by, she popped her head back in and closed the door again.

“Is there a more suitable place where we can speak?” she asked.

The change in Charles Barton’s sketch this morning. The way he’d jumped into the pond when he’d thought she was drowning. And the word he’d been shouting. She had a number of questions for the doctor, but this was not the place to pose them.

“Of course.” Dermot motioned down the hall. “We can go to my office.”

Wynne’s muttering indicated that he didn’t think of it as a good idea, but he stayed close as they followed the doctor. Arriving at the doorway, Jo watched the young man scurry around the office, trying to clear some space on the floor for her to walk. The place looked as if a tempest had recently blown through. Finding a chair free of parcels and books and stacks of paper would be an entirely separate matter.

Wynne’s voice over her shoulder was a curious mix of derision and triumph. “Never mind this scene of chaos. Come with me.”

When he took her hand, Jo allowed him to lead her down the hall, assuming the doctor would follow.

Wynne’s office was the epitome of neatness and order. She couldn’t help but smile at the contrast. Everything had a defined place in his work area. The desk and chairs and bookshelves appeared to be exactly where they were meant to be. A terrestrial globe stood in a corner with a framed map of the world on the wall above it. Over his desk, a colorful print depicted the Battle of Trafalgar being waged, and it was clear the French were being badly beaten.

Jo was impressed but not surprised. She knew Wynne well enough to see the orderliness of this room reflected his personality. He liked planning. He enjoyed order. Satisfaction came only when the pieces of a puzzle lined up and met his expectations. Even as a young man, he was put off by unforeseen events. She recalled him telling her that the key to a well-ordered ship depended on discipline and training. The sea was often unpredictable, which made it the duty of a commanding officer to control what he could by keeping his men and his equipment in top form.

Jo thought of his relationship with Cuffe. His son was already teaching him a few lessons about the unpredictability of a growing child, and the importance of flexibility.

Wynne offered her a seat near the desk, but she glanced back at the hallway.

“What happened to the doctor?” she asked. “Wasn’t he going to join us here?”

“He’s probably already forgotten we were there. I imagine right now he’s standing in his office, one book tucked under his arm as he reads through another book he picked up from the floor.” He sent a pained look at the doorway. “And when he’s finished with whatever passage caught his eye, he’ll see his logbook or ledger lying in a corner beneath a ream of paper and recall that he intended to look up a journal article having to do with melancholia or phrenology or some such thing. And then, of course, he could just possibly find a parcel of letters he’d intended to ask me to answer a month or so ago. The man is incapable of keeping order.”

Jo’s mind flashed to her youngest sister, Millie, and her obsession with creating order. Dr. McKendry would provide a worthwhile challenge for her talents.

Wynne paused as Jo sat in the proffered chair.

“Pray don’t let on that I told you this, but in spite of my badgering and complaining, I know the man is as fine a doctor as you’ll find anywhere. Many a sailor owes McKendry his life.”

“You don’t think he’ll join us?” Jo asked.

“I was only half jesting. He’ll be down here shortly, I assure you.”

They were odd friends, she thought, but they definitely complemented each other’s strengths.

“How did your trip to the village with Cuffe go this morning?” she asked.

The crease in his brow disappeared as Wynne settled into a chair. Satisfaction registered on his face. Jo already knew that look meant he was pleased with his son.

“The vicar told Cuffe recently of an old widow who lives on the outskirts of the village. He had a mind to purchase a few things to take over to her.” His blue eyes met hers across the room. “He’s a good lad.”

In her mind she saw the father and son sitting together by the pond at Knockburn Hall. She’d known it then and she knew it now. With Wynne’s commitment, their relationship would flourish.

The momentary silence in the room was broken by Dr. McKendry charging in, carrying a parcel that he tossed on Wynne’s desk. He drew a chair close to Jo and threw himself into it.

“I’m quite relieved to find you here, m’lady,” he said with a note of apology that didn’t match the mischievous glint in his eye. “I was fearful this villain may have absconded with you.”

“You can call off the search party, McKendry,” Wynne responded. “The only danger she faced was from some feral creature living in that wilderness you call an office.”

Ignoring his friend, Dermot focused solely on her. “Are you certain you’re feeling well enough to be up and about?”

“I assure you, I am,” Jo told him.

“What’s this?” Wynne demanded, holding up the parcel.

“Inexplicably,” the doctor replied, “it was somehow misplaced in my office. I’m not certain when it arrived, but it’s addressed to you.”

Wynne sent Jo a conspiratorial look and inspected the packet before putting it aside. “Yes. Golf balls I had sent from St. Andrews as a gift for the Squire . . . about six months ago.”

“But I am happy to see you’re not any worse for your adventure this morning,” Dermot said to her.

Coming out of the fish pond, Jo had been too agitated about Charles Barton’s welfare to be concerned about herself. Wynne had been there to support her, immediately ordering the others to see that the patient was taken to the ward and that Dr. McKendry was informed. As he escorted Jo back to the house, he’d murmured words of assurance and stayed with her until Anna had taken over.

“About that adventure,” Wynne said, drawing his friend’s attention, “Fyffe’s actions—”

“Were completely unintentional,” Jo broke in. “It was an accident and largely my own fault. I was standing too close to the edge and paying no attention.”

“Fyffe is exuberant, but harmless,” the doctor acknowledged. “That’s why we don’t assign an attendant specifically to watch him. However, considering today’s events, we’ll need to be more watchful.”

“Of course, you must do what you think best, but he was hardly a threat,” Jo asserted, conveying exactly what happened and then going on to tell them about the sketch she’d been holding when she fell into the pond.

The doctor was particularly interested in her observation about the change in Charles Barton.

“No doubt, Mr. Barton is now accustomed to your company. And enough people have been addressing you as Lady Josephine or Lady Jo in his presence. It’s possible your name has registered with him,” Dermot mused. “But the shift of sketching you instead of what he holds in his memory is very exciting. More and more, the curtain separating the remembered from the real appears to be falling away.”

“But what is Garloch?” she asked, thinking of the words he shouted. “Barton kept saying ‘Garloch.’”

“Garloch?” Wynne repeated, looking at the doctor. “Isn’t that the name of a village north of here?”

Dermot nodded. “Yes, about three hours by carriage if the weather is good. The place isn’t even half the size of Rayneford. Most of the farms have given over to raising sheep, I believe. Haven’t been there since I was a lad. A fine river runs through it that my uncles used to fish in before they were seized with their golfing fever. Beyond that, I don’t know much about the place. I can ask the vicar or the Squire; they may know more.”

“But why would Mr. Barton shout the name?”

The doctor shrugged. “Difficult to say. Garloch is quite a way from Tilmory Castle.”

“You say it’s about three hours north of here?”

“Indeed,” Dermot answered. “Are you thinking of going there?”

Jo decided it was time to tell them of her decision to leave. “Since you say this village is in the direction I’m traveling, I’ll make a stop there on Saturday while I resume my journey to Torrishbrae.”

The doctor’s protest was immediate and pronounced, but Wynne’s darkening expression was what Jo fixed on. He held her gaze. She imagined the questions running through his mind. He abruptly stood and went to the window.

“But you can’t leave right now,” Dermot exclaimed. “We need you here. Mr. Barton’s progress clearly depends on your presence.”

The doctor continued to protest. Watching Wynne’s profile, she saw the clench of his jaw.

“My family expects me in Sutherland,” she said in a reasonable tone, her words directed at Wynne. “And I believe I’ve accomplished all I can here.”

“Hardly. We have finally broken through his silence. And another week’s delay in your departure could make substantial difference in Mr. Barton’s condition.” Dermot turned to the captain as if he was noticing his silence for the first time. “Talk to her, Melfort. Talk reason. You’re good at that sort of thing. Don’t you want Lady Josephine to stay?”

He glanced over his shoulder at her. His penetrating blue eyes revealed his wishes before the words left his lips. “I do.”

“There you have it,” the doctor announced as if that were all she was waiting for.

Jo shook her head, still thinking it was wiser to put some distance between them. They were moving too fast.

Wynne turned from the window and joined the conversation. “That village is not on your way. You’ll still need to travel toward the coast to go north to Sutherland. But if you stay, I’ll go with you to Garloch and return here. This will give you the opportunity to investigate and see what connection exists between Barton and the village.”

Wynne’s offer to take her had its merits. An unknown Englishwoman stopping at an out of the way village in the Highlands made less sense than having him traveling with her, considering his connection to the Abbey and the McKendrys.

“But what shall we do once we get there?” she asked him. “We don’t even know if there’s a tavern or an inn where we can ask about Mr. Barton.”

“Most every village in the Highlands has a church.” Wynne looked at Dermot, who nodded confirmation. “That will give us a place to start. We can ask the vicar what he knows. Perhaps even get a letter of introduction from him.”

“I hate to think of you leaving your duties here,” she persisted, her pulse rising at the thought of being alone with him for a full day.

“She’s quite right,” Dermot agreed. “I’ll take care of this. I can have my uncle write a letter and I can escort Lady Josephine to Garloch.”

Jo thought the captain’s response most interesting, for he first sent her a questioning look, as if seeking her approval, and she nodded.

“My dear McKendry. Over dinner recently, I heard you eloquently affirm your commitment to this hospital. About your devotion to the patients who need your care and attention. Lady Josephine would never allow you to sacrifice your valuable time.” Wynne turned his attention back to Jo. “I happen to be at my leisure on Saturday, m’lady. We can leave at dawn and plan on returning before dark, if that suits you.”

Jo accepted the offer, somewhat astonished at how easily she’d been persuaded to extend her stay once again. She’d need to send off another set of letters to her family, inform them of her plans, and try to avoid any reference to Captain Melfort.