It Happened in the Highlands

by May McGoldrick

  The patient and the likenesses to Jo in the sketches had to be real too. There was nothing to gain, no purpose to be had, no advantage that she could think of that would prompt someone like Dr. McKendry to formulate such an elaborate deception.

  Jo reminded herself of the reason for coming here. Her mother.

  “M’lady, that must be the Abbey,” Anna said, motioning out the window to the building rising in the distance above the fields.

  She wasn’t going back, Jo decided. And when it came to Captain Melfort, the most difficult part was behind her.

  At least this was what she needed to make herself believe.

  Chapter 4

  Wynne wasn’t about to go to Dundee. He wouldn’t go as far as the village until he was certain Cuffe understood the potential consequences of his behavior. Safety and discipline had to take priority right now.

  Selling fish to make a little money wasn’t what was pushing Wynne to the edge. Nor was it his son’s refusal to acknowledge or speak to him. Wynne was angry because Cuffe backed directly into the path of the carriage. He could have been trampled beneath the hooves of those horses. He could have been killed.

  Words like careless, irresponsible, selfish spilled out of Wynne all the way back to the Abbey.

  “You’ll remain in this room and think over what you’ve done until I decide your punishment. There is a penalty for willful stupidity.”

  No word of complaint came from Cuffe. Still wearing his muddy boots and clothing, he threw himself on the bed, tucking his hands behind his head and staring morosely at the ceiling.

  Wynne went out and shut the door with more force than he intended. He was very close to losing what little restraint he had left. Punishment. Consequences. He’d never imagined how frustrating it could be making a headstrong ten-year-old listen to reason and act in an acceptable manner.

  His old life offered little insight as to how to proceed. Admittedly, halfway back to the Abbey, he’d momentarily entertained the notion of signing his son onto the crew of a warship. Many wayward boys became men of value on the high seas. But he dismissed the thought. He couldn’t do it. The realities of such a life were harsh, but they were especially hard for someone of mixed race.

  Wynne simply didn’t know how to proceed.

  Maybe he’d made a mistake plucking the boy from the place he’d grown up and trying to resettle him in a life so entirely foreign to him. Maybe he should have increased the grandmother’s allowance, insist that she move down from the mountains to a house in the Jamaican port of Falmouth. If he’d made these arrangements, perhaps she could have kept Cuffe close and out of trouble.

  Wynne ran a hand through his hair, frustration weighing on him. Whatever was required of him as a father, he was failing at it. During the first eight years of Cuffe’s life, he’d had the excuse of being away at sea. During the past two years, he’d shrugged off his responsibility, telling himself he was building a future for the two of them here in the Highlands. His son was here now, and Wynne had no more excuses.

  As a child, Cuffe was safe growing up with his grandmother, who still lived in the Maroon village of Accompong. Protected by its isolation and the rugged Cockpit Country above Falmouth, he’d been away from the outbreaks of violence that broke out between the Maroons and the sugar plantation owners. The evils of slaveholding still haunted the islands, and peace was tenuous, at best. But the number of clashes was on the rise.

  Cuffe’s grandmother confirmed the reports in her letters to Wynne. She feared that the growing boy was being drawn into the increasingly volatile situation. Open conflict on a large scale seemed imminent, and she couldn’t hope to keep Cuffe out of it.

  Wynne agreed. He admired the Maroons and their fight, but he didn’t want his son involved. There had been no other viable option but to bring him here.

  “Excellent!” Dermot’s voice from down the hall drew Wynne out of his thoughts. “You didn’t go to Dundee after all.”

  The suite of rooms he and Cuffe occupied while his tower house, Knockburn Hall, was being renovated, was on the same floor as their offices.

  “Do you have an hour to spare? I need your help.”

  Before joining the doctor, Wynne frowned one last time at the closed door. No point in locking it. No doubt Cuffe could go out a window and climb down the side of the building if he chose to leave. Punishment. He still didn’t know what to do to get his son’s attention.

  “Lady Josephine Pennington has arrived,” Dermot told him as Wynne drew near. “You were right to contact her. She’s the spirit and image of Barton’s sketches.”

  He already knew she was here, but her arrival—and whatever sentiment it evoked in him—was secondary to the problem he was facing with Cuffe.

  “She asked about you,” Dermot told him. “She wanted to know the nature of your connection with the Abbey.”

  “You told her, I assume.”

  “I couldn’t very well lie. I told her that you were the hospital’s governor,” Dermot replied. “I hope that causes no trouble for you.”

  “It’s fine,” he said, resigned to the situation. Knowing he was here, Jo would assuredly not be lingering for any length of time.

  “Good, because I need your help.”

  Wynne glanced back down the hallway toward his rooms. He needed to deal with his son, but that could wait for a bit.

  “Barton was awake drawing for much of the night and was sleeping when she arrived,” Dermot told him. “So I brought her over to the east wing. She’s taking refreshments with my aunt and uncle right now.”

  Wynne imagined Mrs. McKendry and the Squire would be pleased to be entertaining such company. People of distinction rarely visited the Abbey.

  The doctor paused by the door to his office. “But to complicate matters somewhat, I received a note this morning from Mrs. Barton. She and Graham are visiting our patient today.”

  Graham Barton had made more of an impression on Wynne than the mother. The surly uncle of Charles Barton had been running the estate at Tilmory Castle for many years, and was clearly accustomed to making the important decisions.

  “And they’re coming today?”

  “They’re waiting downstairs while my attendants rouse Barton and prepare him to receive his visitors.”

  “Have the Bartons and Lady Jo met?” Wynne asked, entertaining the idea that maybe the families were acquainted.

  “I thought I’d wait on that. I’d like them to meet in the ward itself, at Barton’s bedside,” the doctor told him. “The experience of unexpectedly seeing them all at once might shock him and possibly create a positive reaction in him. I was reading a paper about it that Dr. Ellis, down in West Yorkshire, wrote regarding . . .”

  As Dermot shared the details of the study, Wynne tried to imagine the Bartons’ reaction to the patient’s improvement. The last time the family had seen him was the day they brought him to the Abbey. They thought his death was imminent.

  “Even if the meeting produces nothing,” Dermot concluded, “I don’t want to miss the opportunity.”

  Several arguments came to mind opposing the doctor’s enthusiasm, the most logical one being that Jo and the Bartons knew each other. Such knowledge of one another might also explain why the two parties arrived at the Abbey on the same day. But Wynne remained silent on that score, not caring to cast a wet blanket on his friend’s optimism.

  “I’ll accompany Charles’s family to the ward. But I need you, my friend, to go to the east wing, drag Lady Josephine from the clutches of my aunt and uncle, and escort her to the patient’s bedside.”

  His immediate inclination to protest died before he voiced it. There could be no avoiding Jo. They’d seen each other. She’d asked about him. And she’d decided to stay and see the patient instead of leaving. Wynne already knew he’d regret it if she left and they hadn’t exchanged at least a few words.

  Their shared history was dead and buried, he told himself. He no longer carried in his heart the affection, or the feeling
of protectiveness, that he once had. What remained now was accepting this opportunity to satisfy his curiosity about her character. He wanted to know how much Jo Pennington had changed, if at all.

  * * *

  The Squire and Mrs. McKendry glowed more like proud parents than uncle and aunt. Their enthusiasm for the hospital and its director illuminated every word that came from their mouths. And they were quite fond of Captain Melfort as well.

  Seated at a table in an antiquated, oak-paneled drawing room, Jo sipped tea and listened to stories involving Wynne and Dr. McKendry during their days in the navy. The tales went far beyond the reports and accolades she’d read about in the newspapers in the early days.

  The conversation turned from the past to the hospital and the estate.

  “The Abbey would have gone to ruin if it weren’t for their partnership,” the Squire asserted, spooning sweet apple butter onto another thick slice of warm oat bread. “With the exception of King George’s construction of the north annex to house his army during the Rising, no work was done on this place since my grandsire’s day.”

  From the little she’d seen of the massive structure, it appeared that a great deal of renovation was currently in progress.

  “Our Dermot always knew what he wanted to do with the Abbey—that is, making it into a fine hospital—once his father was gone,” Mrs. McKendry said. “But he could never have done so well without the captain.”

  “So right, darling,” her husband agreed. “It was a blessing they both decided at the same time that they were done with their traveling the world.”

  “True.” The Squire’s wife nodded, pouring more tea for Jo. “And the captain . . . well, he needed to find a suitable home for Cuffe.”

  “Cuffe?” Jo asked.

  “His son,” Mrs. McKendry replied, sending a quick glance at her husband.

  His son. A pang of disappointment slid into her heart like a needle. She placed her cup and saucer gently on the table. Of course he’d be married, she scolded herself. Time had taken her youthful bloom and left her a spinster. But not so for him. The passing years had not only improved his looks, they’d given him the opportunity to fill the pages of his life with happiness.

  “The lad’s mother—” the Squire started.

  “He married her,” his wife interrupted. “Cuffe is the captain’s son and heir.”

  Jo’s mind returned to the incident, little more than an hour ago, when her carriage had to make a sudden stop on the lane leading out of the village. A young dark-skinned boy was standing beside Wynne, and she wondered now if this was the son they spoke of.

  “The lad’s mother died giving birth in the Indies,” Mrs. McKendry confided in a low voice. “Cuffe was raised by his Jamaican grandmother until just two months ago, with the captain paying for everything. She must have saved enough money, because suddenly she didn’t know how to control him any longer.”

  Perhaps it was because gossip had been the bane of her own existence, Jo bristled instinctively. She had no right to be hearing this. She was no more than a stranger to these people.

  “The lad must get his wildness from his mother, for Captain Melfort is the most disciplined of gentlemen.”

  “How old did you say Cuffe was?” Jo asked, interrupting her host.

  “Ten years old.”

  “Before we lay blame on a mother who is no longer here to defend herself, or a grandmother who has raised him from infancy, I should say that wildness in a lad his age is fairly common. We needn’t attribute it to the nature of a parent, especially one none of us have met,” Jo asserted firmly. “You said Cuffe has only been here for a mere two months. Now imagine how anyone would struggle to adjust to completely new social expectations. And he’s so young. Everything he knew, all of his previous routines, replaced by customs and courtesies that we see as natural, but are actually only natural to us.”

  Jo was ready to continue, to challenge the couple to take back not only their words, but to acknowledge the prejudices they were harboring against the child. But her hosts were looking past her at the doorway.

  “Captain, join us,” the Squire said, standing. “Allow me to introduce our guest.”

  Chapter 5

  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.”