It Happened in the Highlands

by May McGoldrick

  In Sutherland, a few days’ ride north of Aberdeen, their younger brother and his wife were expecting their first child. Jo had planned to go and help them. She’d simply stop in at this asylum en route.

  “Hugh knows I’m going north to see Gregory and Freya at Torrishbrae,” she said, taking a seat beside Grace. “I’m leaving a bit earlier, and I’ll be perfectly safe. I’ll be traveling with a maid and a driver and a footman.”

  “You promised Phoebe that you’d wait until she arrives from Hertfordshire before traveling north. She’s planning on coming with you.”

  “My sister is unreliable when it comes to her plans. Any day now I expect a letter from her containing a long list of excuses of why she is delayed. She might not get here until that babe is walking.”

  With secret dreams of being a writer, Phoebe lived in a world of her own. The realities of ordered schedules and family obligations held little importance.

  “Aberdeen is on the way to Sutherland,” Jo said. “My stop at the Abbey will be brief.”

  “I still think you should tell Hugh about the letter and the sketches,” Grace insisted. “And your intended visit to this asylum.”

  “You can tell him,” Jo told her. “But wait until I am already on the road.”

  Chapter 3

  With each Thursday market, the sleepy Highland village of Rayneford came alive, drawing cotters and tradesmen and vendors from the entire region. The market was especially busy this time of year, with the agents of coastal merchants crisscrossing the Highlands to buy newly shorn wool.

  So when the Squire mentioned he’d seen Cuffe traipsing across the fields toward the village, Wynne told himself that he shouldn’t have been surprised. Market day certainly offered more to interest a boy than Cameron’s lessons and his long columns of sums.

  Still, as he rode toward the village, he reminded himself that he had a responsibility to keep his son on the right path. But doing it was becoming more difficult all the time.

  Nearly two months had passed since Cuffe’s arrival, and a single week didn’t pass now without some complaint about him from Hamish or Cameron. The lad was becoming quite proficient at dodging his lessons. He simply didn’t show up, disappearing during the hours designated for instruction. It was the same for his time with the vicar.

  Whatever admiration Wynne once had for his spirited nature, that feeling had gradually dwindled to discontent and annoyance. But whatever complaints the others voiced, they paled in comparison with his own disappointment regarding their father-and-son relationship. Or rather, their lack of it.

  Wynne continued to be a blank space in his son’s world. Cuffe didn’t speak to him—not to complain or to engage in the most mundane conversation. He could draw no response of any kind from him—no reaction to praise or to discipline, no acknowledgment whatsoever that he even existed. The ten-year-old ignored him entirely, and that was more irritating than he would ever have imagined.

  A cart approached from the direction of the village, the piles of wool fleece it had delivered to the market replaced by supplies for the Abbey’s kitchen. Wynne exchanged a few words of greeting with the driver and his young helper. The lad was about the same age as Cuffe.

  Seeing the boy opened another door of worry. Since arriving from Jamaica, his son had made no friends at all, as far as he could tell.

  Cuffe’s mother, Fiba, was of African descent, and Wynne had made certain everyone knew the lad was his son and heir. This hadn’t helped him make friends with the younger farm hands, to be sure. He fully intended him to grow up as a gentleman, and his name and wealth made Cuffe the superior of anyone his own age within miles of the Abbey.

  To remedy this, the vicar had made numerous attempts to introduce him to other boys of his rank in the area. Cuffe hadn’t shown up.

  He was a loner, an outsider, an elusive spirit who preferred to retreat rather than try to accept his new role in this society.

  As Wynne rode along the river toward the stone bridge leading into the village, he realized he was not only thinking of Cuffe. Two people matched that ‘loner’ description. His son was one and Jo Pennington was the other.

  Her letter to Dermot had arrived yesterday. Jo was expected to reach the Abbey tomorrow or the next day.

  Wynne tried to turn his mind to the hills, to the lowering grey sky, to the passing folk who demonstrated the liveliness of fairgoers. But it wasn’t working. She was on his mind.

  He owed her, even after all this time. If a connection existed between Jo and Charles Barton, she had the right to know. He wanted her to know.

  Dermot had been excited about Wynne’s suggestion of sending off the drawings. It could be of immense help to his patient if Lady Josephine were indeed the woman depicted in them. And he’d asked no questions when Wynne told him it was necessary that he remain anonymous and even absent himself during her visit. Each man respected the judgment and privacy of the other. While she was here, he would go to Dundee.

  The patient had showed no further improvement. The elderly gentleman still could not care for himself. Barton had yet to speak a word or show an understanding of anything being said to him. Nonetheless, day after day, as long as he was in possession of pencil and paper, he drew. And the sketches were all the same. They were a depiction of Jo Pennington or someone who looked eerily similar to her.

  When Wynne first saw Barton’s drawings, years had folded in on themselves like a paper troublewit puzzle, forming and reforming memories in the blink of a moment. Even though he’d spent the years after their broken engagement sailing the seas and fighting the French and the Americans, he still knew a great deal about Jo and the life she’d led. She never married, instead, devoting her time to a number of benevolent causes, even starting a facility that housed destitute women and their children.

  Wynne’s older brother and his wife had purchased an estate in the Borders, only a short distance from Baronsford. The Penningtons were frequently mentioned in his sister-in-law’s letters.

  He didn’t know the nature of Charles Barton’s relationship with Jo. Friend, lover, fellow philanthropist? Of course, the possibility existed that Wynne was seeing something that wasn’t there at all. Perhaps the woman in the drawings wasn’t even Jo. Still, vividly recalling the agony caused by the mystery of her origins, he had no choice but to give her the opportunity to pursue this if she chose. Obligation weighed on him, and informing Jo about Barton might lift the burden he’d been carrying.

  As Wynne crossed the bridge, shouts of vendors hawking their wares reached him from the open area around the market cross, and some pipers were striking up a fanciful Highland tune. Deciding to search out Cuffe on foot, he dismounted and left his horse with a tanner’s boy by the edge of the river and started into the village, passing a pair of housewives sitting out on stools in front of an open door. The smell of sweet oat bread and honey cakes hung in the air.

  Rayneford and the Abbey wouldn’t be places to hold much interest for someone of Jo Pennington’s station. He assumed she’d spend no more than a day, see Barton, and then move on. He’d already spoken to Dermot’s aunt about looking after Cuffe while he was away, but he hadn’t yet mentioned it to his son. As if his presence or absence would make any difference at all.

  The Squire’s wife was one of the only people at the Abbey his son had not alienated, and Cuffe spoke to her with the note of deference she was entitled to. Mrs. McKendry, small and round and maternal by nature, was close in age to the lad’s Jamaican grandmother, and Wynne wondered if some similarity between the two women had struck a chord in Cuffe.

  Looking past an old man carrying a large basket with a score of heather-brush brooms, Wynne spotted his son crouched in front of an abandoned cottage. Beyond him, a row of fishmongers had planks laid out with large salmon on display. Cuffe had four brown trout lined up on a coarse bag on the ground.

  A stab of annoyance immediately gave way to worry. Fishing was not against the law, but if he had success at this endeavor, wh
at was to stop him from trapping pheasant or duck or brown hare to sell next? He could easily find himself in trouble if someone didn’t know he’d gotten the game from Abbey grounds. The assumption might be made that he’d poached them, and the difference in his skin color from the pale and ruddy faces of the native Highlanders wouldn’t help him.

  Any remaining confidence Wynne had in the lad’s ability to stay out of trouble and to adjust to this new life slipped away. There was nothing he hadn’t provided. Food, shelter, education, and a great deal of freedom to do as he wished. Last week, he’d selected the best horse in the stables for Cuffe when he appeared to show an interest in riding. His son wanted for nothing, and yet here he was, selling fish at a market.

  A woman approached Cuffe with three little ones clinging to her skirts. She glanced over at the line of fishermen and exchanged a few words with the boy. Taking pity on him, Wynne thought. One of the brown trout went into the basket she was carrying, but before the coin could change hands, Wynne intervened. Snatching the money, he gave it back to her.

  “The lad is not selling them,” he said sharply. “They’re free. In fact, you can take the rest too, if you can use them.”

  Cuffe’s expression hardened, but he said nothing, refusing to acknowledge Wynne’s presence.

  “See here. I don’t know what business it is o’ yers. This wee fellow has every right to earn his . . .” She stopped abruptly when she looked into Wynne’s face.

  Wisely, she said nothing more, but sent Cuffe a look of commiseration. Gathering up the remainder of the trout, she quickly scurried off in the direction of the market cross with her children in her wake.

  Wynne believed he was a reasonable man. As a captain in the navy, he’d prided himself on issuing rational commands even in the midst of the strongest gale or the fiercest battle. Noncompliance wasn’t an option. He expected others to carry out his orders, whether it was on board his ship before, or at the Abbey now. He didn’t know how he’d managed to let slip all the rules he lived by in dealing with his son.

  “We need to talk. Come with me.”

  The words had not left his mouth when Cuffe started walking away from him.

  Wynne caught hold of his arm. “Don’t make this worse.”

  The ten-year-old was strong and quick. Tearing his arm free, he started to run, but Wynne reached out and caught him again, this time grabbing the shoulder of his jacket.

  “I’m giving you the opportunity of addressing this with me in private,” he warned. “You and I need to talk about what you’ve done. And you’ll tell me—using your words—why you felt the need to sell those fish. What is it that you don’t have?”

  Wynne might as well have been talking to those trout. Cuffe’s sole interest was to pull himself free. They were beginning to draw the attention of others, so he took a firm hold of his son’s arm and started toward the tanner’s, where he’d left his horse.

  “I know what you’re doing,” he said as they walked. “You’re trying to make money for your escape. You think you can buy your passage back to Jamaica.”

  A brief pause in the struggle was a sign that he’d hit the mark, though Wynne didn’t need any confirmation. He already knew. He wasn’t about to stand by and see the boy getting battered week after week and not learn the reason. A few questions of the right people, some help from Hamish, and a clear pattern emerged.

  “Every fight you’ve been in since you arrived has been over money. Last month, you let the pigs into the kitchen gardens because those farm lads had made a wager with you to do it. Afterwards, they reneged, so you fought them. Am I right?”

  His son stopped, and Wynne knew he was right.

  “Listen to me. Regardless of how much money you lay your hands on, you can’t go back. Your home is here. Your place is with your only living parent . . . me.”

  The boy tore his arm free, but didn’t try to run.

  “Talk to me,” Wynne ordered.

  Cuffe backed away suddenly, stumbling into the road just as a carriage came out of the village.

  The two lead horses in the team reared up as the driver reined them in sharply. The confused sound of horses and shouts mingled with the scream of a woman nearby as Cuffe fell backwards. Wynne sprang after him, grabbing his jacket and hauling him to safety as the horses plunged forward, carrying the carriage past them before stopping.

  A woman was peering back at them with concern through the small window at the rear of the carriage. Her dark eyes met his with recognition. Wynne felt a kick deep in his gut. They were face-to-face.

  Jo Pennington had arrived a day early.

  * * *

  Their time together had lasted only a few months. Her family believed Jo’s suffering had subsided after a short while, but it never had.

  After the duel, regret over the loss of Wynne’s affections cast an impenetrable cloud over the remaining days of her youth. Occasional suitors presented themselves, but she allowed none of them within the circle of her affection or trust. No one she met could compare with the young naval officer as he remained in her memory.

  * * *

  Another ball, another stroll through the gauntlet of hushed whispers and embroidered tales. Another round of introductions to shallow young men and their hollow, well-rehearsed charm. Would-be suitors who didn’t see her at all, but were well acquainted with her name and her dowry.

  Jo was quickly growing tired of the charade. She was exhausted by the gossip of the ton.

  Shame. Disgrace. Indignity. That was what they whispered. She didn’t belong here.

  They pursued her to the refreshment table; she was certain of it. But when she heard the tasteless reference to her family and the titters, she’d had enough. She had to escape.

  Slipping through the crowd, she saw the open doors and made her way onto the dark balcony and the refuge it offered.

  The façade of composure she’d been maintaining since the start of the young Season cracked and fell away. Tears coursed down her cheeks. She was shaking with anger and unhappiness and frustration. Her parents had warned her, and they were right. Her presentation at Court and her coming out had been a mistake.

  Wallowing in misery, she heard a man’s deep voice behind her.

  “Which hand?”

  She’d assumed she was alone. Panic and embarrassment overwhelmed her as she tried to wipe away the tears.

  “Pray tell me which hand.”

  He was persistent. The balcony was dark. She turned and saw the tall naval officer standing near the trellis. His face lay in shadow, and he was holding out his closed fists.

  “Have we been introduced?”

  “No, Lady Josephine, we haven’t. But you can still tell me which hand.”

  He was playing a game and she went along. “The right.”

  He turned his hand over and opened it. Empty.

  Jo glanced toward the doors to the ballroom. “I really must be getting back.”

  “Which hand?” he asked again. His left hand was still extended.

  “The left,” she said, trying to finish this foolishness.

  He opened the hand. It was empty.

  “I realize you’re teasing me, sir, but I’m not in any mood for it. I need to return to my friends.”

  “I’ll give you one more chance. Which hand?” he asked, holding out only his right hand again.

  He was not giving up.

  “The right one,” Jo said, smiling despite herself. “And this is my final answer.”

  His fist slowly turned over and opened. A delicate red rose bud lay in his palm. “For you.”

  Later that night, Jo and Lieutenant Wynne Melfort were officially introduced.

  * * *

  He was Captain Melfort now. Secretly, she’d followed his advancement and accomplishments in the ensuing years, combing through the war news for every mention of him.

  As Jo stared out the rear window of the carriage at the man and boy standing on the edge of the lane, a thousand feelings rushed through
her, but she clung to one. As painful as their separation was, time had softened much of her sorrows.

  Tall and confident as ever in his stance and gaze, Wynne showed no trace of aging. He looked just as she still saw him in her dreams. The years had been kind to him. If anything, he had grown even more handsome.

  Her eyes met his, and she nodded her head. He bowed but did not approach.

  A blur of voices and market sounds filled the carriage, but none of them penetrated her thoughts. Then, the surprise of the incident gave way to panic. The urge to run, to escape from him, propelled her thoughts and actions.

  “Have the driver walk on,” she whispered to Anna, her maidservant.

  She forced herself to take a breath, then the next and the next. Her heart was drumming in her chest, and any sense of composure was slow to attain. She willed herself to be calm; clear thinking was a necessity right now.

  They’d finally met again. And the worst was over. What once existed between them was over. It was over, Jo kept repeating to herself. It was over.

  “Did you know him, m’lady?” Anna asked. “A braw, handsome gentleman, to be sure.”

  At the time of Jo’s engagement, the maidservant had been working at Baronsford. She guessed if Anna knew Captain Melfort at all, it was only by name.

  “Perhaps. He looked familiar,” Jo replied vaguely. “But you were saying you have cousins who live somewhere near Aberdeen.”

  As Anna rattled on, Jo considered what had just occurred. According to directions they received in Rayneford, they were very close to the Abbey. And Wynne was in the village. Perhaps he had a connection with the hospital. That would explain how Dr. McKendry identified her from the patient’s sketches.

  The vagueness of the letter she received now made sense. She wouldn’t have come if she knew Wynne had anything to do with this.

  She could still go back. Turn the carriage around and continue the trip north to see Gregory and Freya. But the Abbey was real. She’d known that before she left the Borders. Her sister-in-law Grace wouldn’t allow Jo to leave until she’d made inquiries in Edinburgh with the help of one of Hugh’s law clerks. They’d learned Dr. McKendry had established the asylum as a reputable facility in only two years of operation. Whether her brother was aware of the actions of Grace or not, Jo didn’t know, but she’d left Baronsford assured that she wasn’t walking into some ruse or fraudulent situation.