It Happened in the Highlands

by May McGoldrick

  “Talk to him,” she said softly. “Negotiate, if need be.”

  “I’m not willing to forego giving him what he needs.”

  “You’re showing him that you respect his Jamaican heritage by calling him Cuffe. Perhaps you can reflect that, as well, in his program of studies.”

  They were standing not an arrow shot from the tower house, and Jo looked at the massive stone structure. On the east side of the house, an addition was being constructed, though the building had not progressed beyond the foundation. There was no sign of life anywhere.

  “What do you suggest? I’ve read Defoe’s Crusoe, and I don’t believe the man ever saw Jamaica or any island west of Guernsey.”

  Jo thought of Phoebe and the books at the Pennington libraries at Melbury Hall and London and Baronsford. “You might have him read literature written by Africans or those of African descent. The autobiography of Olaudah Equiano. Or the work of the Phillis Wheatley, if you have no objection to an American poet. There are others. I’d be happy to compile a list for you. In doing so, you’ll be showing him that you don’t intend to strip him of an identity to which he is most attached.”

  “The lad is only ten years old. I don’t wish to bore him out of his mind.”

  “What he may be feeling now is worse than boredom.”

  “I agree. But I’m at a loss.”

  “It’s the gesture that is important. Your gesture,” she said. “And he might surprise you as far as how advanced he is in comprehension and maturity.”

  Jo understood his frustration. He was willing to make a change. His commitment to his son was admirable.

  “I’ll make arrangements and buy whatever you suggest. But we began by talking about getting him involved with the patients.”

  “Have Cuffe read to them,” she suggested. “Decide on a time each day for him to go into the ward and read aloud.”

  “And what would he read that would keep them engaged?”

  “It’s what keeps Cuffe engaged that matters.”

  Jo remembered the gift that she was taking to Ella, Gregory and Freya’s niece at Torrishbrae. A volume of Ohenewaa’s African tales that her sister Phoebe had collected over the years and written out for the next generation of Pennington children.

  “I can lend you a manuscript edition of fables for him to read while I’m here. Unfortunately, I need to take the volume with me when I leave for Sutherland. They’re Ohenewaa’s stories from western Africa.”

  Wynne had never met her, but Jo had spoken many times of the wise woman during their times together. His blue eyes washed over her face and she knew he remembered.

  His hold on her was back. The pull, the memories. They stood too close, the breeze making his coat dance with her dress. He brushed the back of his hand against hers in what could have been a silent gesture of gratitude for the offer. Warmth flooded though her. Her heart raced, her mind easing into the past and recalling how often he used to bring her fingers to his lips, turning her hand and kissing her palm. Butterflies danced in her belly at the mere thought.

  She turned to the house, hoping to break the spell.

  “Does anyone live here?” Jo asked, letting out an unsteady breath. She focused her attention on the grey and brown stonework and the unglazed windows. The slate roof appeared to be intact, however, and the foundation of the addition would be doubling the size of the house.

  “No one at present.”

  “It looks much newer than the Abbey.”

  “It’s older, actually,” he replied, turning his gaze toward the structure. “Knockburn Hall was a hunting lodge of one of the old Stewart kings. He gave the land to some monks but kept the use of the tower house for himself. It’s been sitting here for years, but it was recently purchased. The owner intends to move in when the new construction is completed.”

  Wynne offered Jo his arm and she took it.

  They went closer, and Jo remarked about the lovely turrets and how the house was situated facing south. “It’s so protected from the winds with the forest and hills behind and the open meadows before it.”

  “I believe the addition will have a great many windows and a terraced garden extending in this direction to take advantage of the view.”

  “You know a great deal about the plans,” she noted suspiciously.

  “I should. Knockburn Hall is my house. Or it will be when it’s finished.”

  She shouldn’t have been surprised. The living quarters of the Abbey was a McKendry stronghold. Wynne wouldn’t want to raise his son in the home of others.

  “Would you care to see the inside?”

  They stood shoulder to shoulder. His free hand pressed her fingers on his arm. A swell of yearning rose within her body.

  She imagined the two of them alone in the house. The ancient oak floors. The morning sun streaming in the windows. There was a time when she dreamed of a moment like this, a time for the two of them. Alone. But that time was long gone. It was too late.

  She pulled away from him, gathering the shawl tighter around her. “No, I should go back. I was planning on having breakfast with Dr. McKendry. I want to convince him to allow me to spend the day in the ward.”

  He bowed and she hurried away, retracing her steps to the path. The aching in her heart trailed her at every step. If only she could turn around, go in the house, pretend that they’d just met.

  Only when she reached the brook did she look over her shoulder.

  Wynne was still standing where she left him, watching her walk away.

  Chapter 10

  “Me. Reading out loud in the ward.” Cuffe’s face registered a curious mixture of horror and disbelief upon hearing Wynne’s announcement.

  “I said I would inform you of your punishment when the time was right,” he told his son. “For one hour each afternoon, starting today, you’ll read to the patients from that book.”

  Finding Cuffe on a flat rock in the grassy area outside the kennels, Wynne waited while his son considered the penalty. The lad had been reading with a newly weened pup asleep on his lap.

  “Perhaps it would be best if we started tomorrow, Captain. I’m certain I’ve heard the vicar say something about laboring on the Sabbath.”

  “He was speaking theoretically.”

  “He mentioned yawning gates and a fiery pit.”

  “I’m willing to risk it. Up, lad. Time and tide wait for no man.”

  A steady rain had fallen over the past two days, but the sun had broken through by mid-morning. During that time Wynne had been quietly impressed by the influence of Jo’s presence on the fabric of life at the Abbey. And that included her suggestion regarding how to ease Cuffe into his new responsibility.

  When he returned to the Abbey after their walk to Knockburn Hall, she’d been waiting for him with the book of African fables. When he gave it to Cuffe and explained what it was, the boy had taken an immediate interest in it. Yesterday, Wynne mentioned the volume to Cameron, and the bookkeeper said the ten-year-old was spending every free moment he had reading through it, and that Jo had stopped by to talk about the stories and tell him how they came to be in the book. Seeing how much the collection appealed to Cuffe, Wynne intended to talk to her about possibly having a copy made.

  Cuffe closed the book and hugged it close to his chest. “What good would it do? They won’t understand what I’m reading.”

  “How do you know?”

  The shrug was familiar, but Cuffe got to his feet and carried the squirming pup back into the kennels. A moment later they were walking side by side toward the Abbey annex.

  Jo had also been offering that fawning dog McKendry ideas about the ward. He couldn’t walk by Dermot without having to hear him sing her praises. As they neared the door to the annex, Wynne realized he would have been joining in if he wasn’t so annoyed by the doctor’s blasted wooing of her.

  Since the morning of Wynne’s walk with Jo, the scoundrel had been herding her about like a prize cow. Wherever she went, the caw-handed sawbones
was there beside her. When she wanted to meet with the vicar in the village to ask him what he might know of the Barton family and their history, Dermot had piped up and volunteered like a wet-nosed landsman on his first sea voyage. When she wished to bring Charles outside for an hour in the mid-morning sun, the doctor had changed his schedule to sit beside her. At dinner, he made sure she was seated at his end of the table. Whatever rules still existed regarding courtship, the villainous rake was ignoring them all.

  All of this should have meant nothing to him, but Wynne was highly annoyed just the same.

  When he and Cuffe entered the ward, they paused by the door. The noise level was high, for all of the patients were still inside. Some were milling about aimlessly while others were standing at the windows. A few were sitting at tables, but no cards or dice boxes were out, this being Sunday.

  Wynne’s attention was drawn to Charles Barton, who was sitting beside Jo as she read to him.

  Jo’s delicate chin lifted after each passage, and she looked at the patient as if to reassure him that she was there. Her world centered solely on the fortunate man.

  Wynne recalled what she told him the morning of their walk. Begin again as strangers. Pretend they’d just met. No history.

  To agree to her wishes meant that Wynne would have no chance to say the words that would free him of the burden he’d been carrying. Also, to agree meant that he’d have no more hold on her than Dermot.

  He wondered if she knew how much she tormented him by asking such a thing.

  At that moment her head turned in their direction and she smiled. Wynne wasn’t the only one affected by her acknowledgment of their arrival. Cuffe held the book up for her to see.

  Dermot noticed their arrival, as well, and abandoned an attendant he was speaking with and crossed the room to Jo. Clearly, he couldn’t stomach the idea of a competitor vying for her attention. Wynne seethed inwardly when the jackal bent his head over hers solicitously, smiling at whatever she said.

  “This is foolishness,” Cuffe complained. “No one here cares to listen to these tales. No one will even hear me.”

  Wynne motioned to a long table. The only person occupying a chair was a patient named McDonnell. A blacksmith of about thirty years of age, he’d sustained a head injury from a horse he was shoeing. The man absorbed directions, but was unable to string words into a sentence. His inability to communicate and his difficulty in controlling his limbs severely frustrated him and left him wretched.

  “Come with me. Mr. McDonnell will appreciate the stories.”

  The young boy’s feet dragged as Wynne led the way, but he followed, honoring the promise he’d made.

  At the table Wynne spoke to McDonnell and introduced Cuffe, but other than a small spasm causing a muscle in his cheek to jump, the patient made no response.

  “I won’t stand on a table or a chair,” the ten-year-old whispered. “And I won’t yell. I don’t care if they hear me or not.”

  “As long as McDonnell and I can hear you,” he told him, adjusting a few of the chairs to face the spot where he told Cuffe to stand. Leaving him to it, Wynne sat next to the patient.

  “And you’ll keep the time.”

  “I’ll tell you when your hour is up,” he assured his son.

  “What if I’m in the middle of a story?”

  “You’ll finish it.”

  The lad shook his head. “But some of the tales are short. It wouldn’t be fair if—”

  “Cuffe,” he warned, cutting him off. “Begin now.”

  A frown, some shifting from one foot to the other, and then he opened the book, paged through it, found a page to his liking, and started.

  Wynne was here to see his son through the task rather than to listen to the story, but Cuffe’s posture changed as soon as he began. He became animated, energized by the text.

  “Why the Sun and the Moon Live in the Sky,” he read. “Many years ago the Sun and Water were great friends, and both lived on the Earth together. The Sun used to visit the Water, but the Water never returned his visits.”

  Cuffe paused and looked up at Wynne and the patient, seeing if he had their attention.

  “At last the Sun asked the Water why he never came to see him in his house. The Water replied that the Sun’s house was not big enough, and that if he came with his family, he would drive the Sun out.”

  Cuffe showed no hesitation or difficulty with the reading. To Wynne’s surprise, he was more than proficient. He spoke in a clear voice with no shyness whatsoever. The boy’s grandmother taught Cuffe to read and write back in Jamaica, but Wynne had never imagined he’d be so good at it.

  Captivated by the effort, he watched and listened to the story as his son read dramatically, speaking in various voices to portray the characters.

  “Yes, come in, my friend,” Cuffe said in a high-pitched voice for the Sun.

  Wynne heard what sounded like a chuckle from the man sitting beside him and realized McDonnell was engaged in the reading.

  “When the Water was level with the top of a man’s head, the Water said to the Sun . . .” Cuffe paused as another patient took a seat. “Do you want more of my family to come?”

  McDonnell shook his head in response for the Sun.

  “Yes,” Cuffe replied emphatically. “For the Sun did not know any better. So the Water flowed in, until the Sun and the Moon, his wife, had to perch themselves on the top of the roof.”

  Several more patients joined them, and Wynne saw another had left the window and was standing close enough to hear. Someone made a noise behind him and was hushed as Cuffe continued.

  “The Water very soon overflowed the top of the roof, and the Sun and Moon were forced to go up into the sky, where they have remained ever since.”

  Immediate words of praise and “Hear, hear!” echoed from the gathered patients. Cuffe looked up, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Wynne nodded his approval, and he saw the boy beam at someone standing behind him. He looked up and saw Jo. He immediately rose to his feet.

  “Cuffe’s reading was wonderful,” she whispered. “You must be proud.”

  “Thank you,” he said, meeting her shining brown eyes. “I’m grateful to you for—”

  “He’s starting again,” she interrupted. “May I join you?”

  “Of course.” Only two seats remained at the table, and as he held the chair for her, he saw Dermot approaching. Wynne looked around him at every occupied chair and sent the doctor a feigned look of sympathy before sitting beside her in the last chair.

  “‘Clever Jackal Gets Left Out,’” Cuffe said, announcing the title of the next story.

  Chapter 11

  When Jo received Dr. McKendry’s invitation to travel to the Highlands, she never imagined her sojourn to the Abbey would result in friendship with the doctor. They conversed easily, sharing opinions and ideas, but their relationship ended there. Although he pretended to pursue her when they were in the presence of others, no spark of attraction existed. They were friends and only friends. But she was beginning to feel that others were not seeing their rapport in the same light.

  Sitting at dinner on Tuesday night, Jo squirmed at the discussion between the Squire and Mrs. McKendry regarding the virtues of matrimony. Their opinions were seconded by the vicar, who went on to extol the doctor’s fine qualities. As they talked, the three of them continually sent Jo knowing and meaning-laden glances. Clearly, the only matter left to be concluded was the decision on a date and the reading of the banns.

  She would have tossed the topic off as being in keeping with the jocular nature of the family, but Wynne’s fierce demeanor across the table told her that he too had bought into the misconception.

  It shouldn’t have mattered. She could have ignored it and allowed the conversation to follow its delusional path until it ran its course and dissipated into nothingness. However, having her name ensnared or even bandied about in rumor never sat well with her. Jo held the doctor in high esteem, but she wanted it known to those
around the table that no understanding existed between the two of them.

  “Doctor,” she said during a momentary lull, “I hope I’m here long enough to meet this exceptional young woman your family is so exceedingly enthused about.”

  McKendry was about to speak, but she cut him off.

  “I can just imagine her virtues.” She paused for only a moment, feeling the company’s eyes upon her. “Aside from her beauty, I envision her as a young lady in the spring bloom of life. A man of your age and position would certainly want a partner who shares his desire for a houseful of children.” As opposed to a spinster getting to an age beyond childbearing years, she thought. This was a fact of life she’d accepted. “I’m also thinking she must be a local lass from a good family, for I’m certain the isolation of the Highland winters could prove wearing on one not as hearty as the McKendrys.”

  Jo raised her glass of wine. “If I may be so bold . . . To the McKendrys. Slàinte mhath . . . Slàinte mhòr.”

  Surprised laughter and comments immediately followed her tribute to the family and to their Jacobite ties. She’d hoped her words would lay the subject of matrimony to rest and redirect the conversation, but the doctor raised his glass in her direction.

  “The lady I have my eye on is beautiful indeed. Regarding age, whether she be in the spring or autumn of life or anywhere between, it makes no difference to me. I seek no heirs, Lady Josephine. I’m committed to this hospital. My time is consumed by patients who need my care and attention.”

  “Hear, hear,” the vicar began. “A man’s work is—”

  Dermot interrupted his uncle and continued. “My future wife’s qualities of intelligence and empathy for others are unparalleled. In all my travels, I’ve never met another lady quite like her.”

  Rather than feeling flattered by the compliments directed at her, Jo was embarrassed and disconcerted. Dermot’s family, however, having received all the encouragement they needed, only ramped up their matchmaking efforts.

  Dinner’s conclusion could not have come soon enough.

  Later, while the women waited for the men to join them in the drawing room, Jo stood by the windows staring out at the gardens. She couldn’t bear to join Mrs. McKendry and her guests for fear of becoming the victim of foolish questions regarding her phantom engagement.