It Happened in the Highlands

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It Happened in the Highlands Page 12

by May McGoldrick


  A single tear slid down Jo’s cheek. She loved Wynne. And she’d never stopped loving him. Never. Not through all the years when hope was gone.

  * * *

  When Wynne first approached his son, he thought they wouldn’t speak at all. But Jo was right. Cuffe wanted to talk to him, to someone, and once he began, the floodgates burst open.

  He only needed to ask about Jamaica, about the village in the mountainous forests above Falmouth. About the house Cuffe lived in with his grandmother. He didn’t need to say anything else, for his son talked of Nanny until homesickness and grief nearly choked him.

  The trees, the grass, the pond, the dark hair resting against Wynne’s shoulder became a blur as he struggled against the raw emotion his son’s words and tears unleashed in him. He waited, allowing the tranquility of the woods and the water to calm Cuffe’s sobs before he spoke.

  “You want to be there with her, I know. You feel your place is to help your grandmother.” Wynne forced the words out through the tightness in his throat. “But Nanny’s last letter before I sent for you convinced me that her sole hope, her greatest prayer, was that you come to live here.”

  “But why?”

  “Because she was worried about you.”

  “But I’m worried about her!” he cried.

  “Your Nanny saw more trouble coming on the island, and she was afraid you’d be caught up in it.”

  “I’ll stay out of it. I won’t do anything to make her worry.”

  “Nanny has lived through troubles before. She knows how young men and boys get swept up in it, whether they mean to or not. It’s the nature of war, and she said war is coming between the Maroons and the plantation owners.” Wynne rubbed his son’s back. “Nanny told me she’d die if you were taken by the authorities or hurt for tagging along.”

  “If you let me go back, I swear I won’t do any of those things.” Cuffe pulled away and turned his pleading eyes on him. “I’ll stay close to her, I promise. I won’t even leave the village.”

  He knew his son was mature far beyond his years. Cuffe had grown up hearing about or witnessing with his own eyes the ruthlessness of the landowners. The injustice would inevitably drive him to resist.

  It had been more than seven years since slave-trading was made illegal, but little had changed in the islands. Wynne was a military man and he believed in the Maroon’s fight. He too had seen the evils of slavery firsthand. Too many in England profited by the exploitation of human beings, and too many turned a blind eye to it.

  More than the fair-weather abolitionists and the idealists in Parliament, the Maroons were the strongest force resisting the evil of slavery in Jamaica. In the sugar islands, they were known as the Children of the Mist. And they were feared. Emerging from nowhere, they’d attack a slave trader, free a shipment of slaves bound for a plantation, and then disappear. When retaliations came, everyone was dragged into battle—every man, woman, and child. And this is what Cuffe’s grandmother feared most.

  Wynne respected the fight, but he couldn’t allow his son to take part in it at his age.

  “I’m not saying this well,” he said, searching for the words that might help Cuffe understand. “The decision to bring you to Scotland was to give you a safe home, but that’s not all. Having you here is as much about your Nanny and me. It’s about being a grandmother and a father. It’s about caring so much that you would die before allowing your son to be hurt.”

  He pulled Cuffe to him again, and to his relief, the boy allowed it. Wynne hadn’t been the father he should have been, but he would make up for it now.

  “Until you’re grown,” he told him, “your place is with me. But I promise you this, I’ll teach you all you need to know to survive in the world you choose to live in. You’ll learn to think and ride and fight. You’ll train your mind and your body. You’ll become strong and sharp and clear thinking. You’ll be a leader that men can trust. And when you’re ready, when you’re old enough, you can choose where you want to be.”

  Wynne knew this wasn’t the answer Cuffe hoped for.

  “I know you miss your grandmother,” he said softly. “You can write to her. I know she’ll write back to you.”

  “But the time between is slow,” Cuffe said, pulling away again. “If I don’t see her, I’m afraid I’ll forget her.”

  “Never. Nanny raised you. She made you the fine, strong lad you are. For as long as you live, she’ll be a part of who you are and a part of all you’ll do.”

  Cuffe stretched his legs out in front of him and stared at the line of trees beyond the pond. His tears had dried and the sobs had subsided, but his sorrow still showed in his face.

  Jo told him to listen and talk to his son. He’d listened and then he’d talked, as well. He hoped Cuffe knew that he understood his son’s pain.

  They’d made a great leap forward in a very short time, but he knew that this moment was just one step on a long road.

  “So much of life requires making difficult choices,” Wynne said quietly. “You have many ahead of you.”

  He was surprised when Cuffe’s gaze swung around to him.

  “What difficult choices have you made?”

  “Too many to count.”

  “Was it a difficult choice bringing me here?”

  Wynne pushed the shock of hair to the side to see his son’s alert brown eyes. “No. That wasn’t difficult at all.”

  “Tell me one difficult choice you made. One that changed your life.”

  Wynne’s gaze drifted toward the stone edifice behind them. “I broke off my engagement with Lady Jo sixteen years ago.”

  Cuffe twisted around to glance back at the house. “You and Lady Jo? Why would you do that? What’s wrong with you? How could you let her go?”

  Wynne could not disagree. What was wrong with him?

  “I gave her up because I worried about her,” he replied finally. “I let her go because I couldn’t protect her.”

  Chapter 13

  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.”

 

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