The timidity that he had known in Jo’s character was gone. In its place, Wynne saw a lioness ready to pounce in defense of his son.

The notion warmed his heart. With the exception of Dermot, Cuffe had very few champions at the Abbey. Many of the farm folk ignored the lad. Others tolerated him politely out of deference to Wynne . . . at least in his presence. And there were some, like the Squire and his wife and the vicar—genuinely good-hearted people—who had the best of intentions but managed to say the wrong things at the wrong time.

A faint blush colored Jo’s cheek as she stood and turned to him. She’d changed. He had always thought her very pretty, but she now had a handsomeness about her that took him aback. The perfect symmetry of her high cheekbones, the confident set of her mouth, the soft curves of her hips and breast. She was a flower that had bloomed, but had retained in maturity the best qualities of youth.

Wynne gazed into her grave, brown eyes. Beneath the well-defined eyebrows and the long lashes, the shadows of sadness still dwelt there.

As the Squire started to make the introductions, Jo spoke.

“Captain Melfort and I are acquainted.”

Curious looks passed between the husband and wife as bow and curtsy were exchanged, but they asked no questions. No explanations were offered either.

“Take some tea with us, Captain?” Mrs. McKendry asked.

“I am afraid I can’t, ma’am. I’m here to steal your guest away and escort her to the ward. The doctor believes his patient might be ready to accept visitors.” He turned his attention back to their guest. “That is, if Lady Jo is ready.”

“Yes, I am. Absolutely,” she said in a rush before thanking her hosts for their hospitality.

Wynne waited by the door, listening to the lilt of her voice, watching her movements, and feeling the years drop away.

Their parting was back. He owed her an apology. Whatever words he wrote to her were meaningless because he’d never had the chance to explain himself more fully. But she wasn’t at home, and his cowardice made him leave the hastily written letter.

The duel with her brother the next morning had ended any chance of them meeting until today.

Wynne thought the years had dulled the sharp edge of their past, but he was wrong.

“ . . . and our invitation stands, m’lady,” Mrs. McKendry was saying. “If you decide to stay the night, or a fortnight, or as long as you desire, you’re welcome here. We have any number of rooms in the Abbey that we keep in readiness for the families of the patients when they visit.”

“That is very kind of you, but my brother Gregory and his wife are expecting me at Torrishbrae in Sutherland. I was hoping to be back on the road by mid-afternoon.”

Gregory married, Wynne thought. The last time he’d seen Jo’s younger brother, he was only slightly older than Cuffe.

Jo avoided meeting his gaze as she approached, and Wynne recalled a time when she’d rush across a room to take his hand and demand to know what he was thinking.

As they maneuvered through the corridors out of the east wing and into the old great hall, he broke the silence lying heavily between them.

“I need to apologize for inadvertently eavesdropping,” he said. “I entered the drawing room a moment before my presence was noted. I was impressed by your knowledge of children’s manners and behavior, and your sense of conviction in voicing your views.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “I’m afraid I’ve developed a failing in being too abrupt on this topic. My tone was a little strident for the occasion, I believe.”

“Don’t worry about them. The Squire and his wife are not ones to carry a grudge,” he told her. “They are kindhearted people. Truly. At the same time, they’re unfamiliar with how to deal with anyone, adult or a child, who looks different or behaves differently from people they’re accustomed to. Unlike your own broad-minded family, they lead a provincial life here in the Highlands. I’m quite sure Cuffe is the first person of African descent that they’ve ever met.”

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.”

They were dismissing her. A light had flickered beneath the door to her past, but Jo had no power to push it open. The sketches were significant. They had to be. The doctor told her when she’d first arrived that Charles Barton was fifty-six years of age. Of the little Jo knew of her mother, she would have been fairly close to him in age.

Mrs. Barton’s sudden change in demeanor, Graham’s hostility, and Charles’s sketches were enough evidence of some connection. But she couldn’t find a way to challenge them. Their denials slammed the door on her, shutting her outside.

She’d come all this way for nothing. Old, familiar feelings of helplessness jabbed her like an iron fist in the gut. She felt ill, defeated in what had to be the last chance she’d ever have of reclaiming her identity, of knowing who she was. Tears burned her eyes and threatened to break free.

A pressure of a firm hand in the small of her back awakened Jo to her surroundings. Wynne was there with her, supporting her. She took a deep breath and raised her chin.

“Perhaps, Doctor, you’re asking the wrong people about Lady Josephine’s connection,” Wynne said before addressing the family. “Mrs. Barton, you said your son spent many years away from Tilmory Castle before the accident.”

The old woman reached over and adjusted the blanket on Charles’s chest. “Unfortunately, we don’t know of his acquaintances during that time.”

“Lady Josephine, perhaps you can shed some light on this situation,” Dr. McKendry suggested.

Jo had already told the doctor she didn’t know the name, and she’d told Wynne she didn’t recognize the patient nor his family. Nonetheless, feeling her chance slipping away, she moved to the bedside.

All other sounds in the ward faded. The people gathered around the bed disappeared. Jo looked down into the patient’s lined face. His breathing was ragged, and he appeared to be wrestling with demons, battling unseen shadows. His eyes moved restlessly as he scanned the ceiling above, running from nightmares. She was convinced he had secrets to divulge—secrets involving her mother—but he couldn’t find the clarity of mind to grasp or convey them.

The sketches were distinct representations of the same person. Every image depicted the same woman at the same age. She was someone he knew, someone locked in his damaged mind, but she didn’t know how to pry that memory free.

“Charles,” she said gently, casting propriety aside. “Charles Barton.”

The patient turned his face toward the sound of her voice. He blinked and his eyes focused on her.

“Charles,” she said again.

A lifetime of insecurity and self-doubt surged like a spring flood rising against the fragile wall of an ancient dam. Fear and hope and loss churned within her, threatening to break through the seemingly paper-thin walls of her chest.

Know me, she prayed, closing her eyes. Speak to me.

Charles Barton’s hand slipped into hers, and Jo’s eyes flew open. Warmth emanated from their joined palms.

“You’ve come,” he whispered.