Page 27 of It Happened in the Highlands
As they climbed a rise and skirted the edge of an overgrown orchard, she was hesitant to go farther. But Wynne didn’t show any sign of avoiding the house.
“We don’t want to intrude,” she said finally. “Perhaps it would be better if we turned back here.”
“I know they don’t mind,” he said, motioning for her to continue. “I’d like your advice about punishment for Cuffe for what he did last night.”
Jo was touched that he’d ask her opinion on such a sensitive and personal matter. “Hewastaken advantage of.”
“If you please, don’t make excuses for him.” He picked up a fallen branch and frowned. “I’m not about to beat him. I don’t believe that ever helps except to get a rogue’s attention. Cuffe is no rogue and we already have his attention.”
He was the same compassionate man she once knew. She recalled the conversations they used to have of someday having a child. And how he’d declare that he would be everything his own father failed to be. Empathetic. Fair.
“I want him to learn a lesson from the experience. But extra hours of arithmetic or Latin, or even mucking out a stable, is teaching him very little.”
“Cuffe lives above the ward. Why not involve him with the care of the patients in some way?”
“Dr. McKendry has attempted that very thing, without success. He only wanted to get the lad to escort him as he made his rounds of the hospital, to get to know the patients.” He tossed the stick away. “Cuffe shows no interest. And I don’t believe forcing him would improve his relationship with them.”
Her thoughts turned to her childhood and Melbury Hall, her family’s home in Hertfordshire. Since before she was born, the place had been a refuge for freed men and women from the sugar islands. Ohenewaa. The wizened face of the serious old woman pushed into her mind’s eye. Beloved and respected by all. As a healer, she helped the earl recover from injuries that nearly killed him, and as a teacher, she shaped the character of each of the Pennington children.
“Since he arrived at the Abbey, how is he doing with his tutors?” she asked tentatively, trying to decide if Wynne would take offence at what she was about to ask. He’d asked, and she was willing to help, but she didn’t know if he’d listen to her suggestions.
“According to Mr. Cameron, my son doesn’t have a great fondness for book learning.”
“What is he being taught?”
Wynne explained the busy schedule that filled the young boy’s day.
“You’re giving him an English gentleman’s education.”
“He’s my son. He’s learning the things that befit his station.”
“Pray don’t mistake me,” she said, hearing the note of defensiveness creep into his tone. “I congratulate you on all you’re doing. You’re preparing him to function as a gentleman in your world.”
“Exactly.” Wynne stopped and faced her.
“But Cuffe is more than an English gentleman, is he not?” she suggested. “What acknowledgment is being made of his mother and the world he has only recently left behind?”
His piercing blue eyes met hers and she felt as if he were trying to reach into her thoughts and read her mind.
“I take your meaning,” Wynne replied. “He’s rejected the name Andrew.”
“And it appears he’s rejecting the education you’re providing for him, however valuable it will prove to be in his future.”
“I want him to survive. Here. In Scotland and in England. There’s no life for him back where he came from,” he argued. “How do I make him understand?”
“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’sCrusoe,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.”
