Page 11 of It Happened in the Highlands
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 likecareless,irresponsible,selfishspilled 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?”
