Page 42 of It Happened in the Highlands
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.”
Jo’s mind flashed to her youngest sister, Millie, and her obsession with creating order. Dr. McKendry would provide a worthwhile challenge for her talents.
Wynne paused as Jo sat in the proffered chair.
“Pray don’t let on that I told you this, but in spite of my badgering and complaining, I know the man is as fine a doctor as you’ll find anywhere. Many a sailor owes McKendry his life.”
“You don’t think he’ll join us?” Jo asked.
“I was only half jesting. He’ll be down here shortly, I assure you.”
They were odd friends, she thought, but they definitely complemented each other’s strengths.
“How did your trip to the village with Cuffe go this morning?” she asked.
The crease in his brow disappeared as Wynne settled into a chair. Satisfaction registered on his face. Jo already knew that look meant he was pleased with his son.
“The vicar told Cuffe recently of an old widow who lives on the outskirts of the village. He had a mind to purchase a few things to take over to her.” His blue eyes met hers across the room. “He’s a good lad.”
In her mind she saw the father and son sitting together by the pond at Knockburn Hall. She’d known it then and she knew it now. With Wynne’s commitment, their relationship would flourish.
The momentary silence in the room was broken by Dr. McKendry charging in, carrying a parcel that he tossed on Wynne’s desk. He drew a chair close to Jo and threw himself into it.
“I’m quite relieved to find you here, m’lady,” he said with a note of apology that didn’t match the mischievous glint in his eye. “I was fearful this villain may have absconded with you.”
“You can call off the search party, McKendry,” Wynne responded. “The only danger she faced was from some feral creature living in that wilderness you call an office.”
Ignoring his friend, Dermot focused solely on her. “Are you certain you’re feeling well enough to be up and about?”
“I assure you, I am,” Jo told him.
“What’s this?” Wynne demanded, holding up the parcel.
“Inexplicably,” the doctor replied, “it was somehow misplaced in my office. I’m not certain when it arrived, but it’s addressed to you.”
Wynne sent Jo a conspiratorial look and inspected the packet before putting it aside. “Yes. Golf balls I had sent from St. Andrews as a gift for the Squire . . . about six months ago.”
“But I am happy to see you’re not any worse for your adventure this morning,” Dermot said to her.
Coming out of the fish pond, Jo had been too agitated about Charles Barton’s welfare to be concerned about herself. Wynne had been there to support her, immediately ordering the others to see that the patient was taken to the ward and that Dr. McKendry was informed. As he escorted Jo back to the house, he’d murmured words of assurance and stayed with her until Anna had taken over.
“About that adventure,” Wynne said, drawing his friend’s attention, “Fyffe’s actions—”
“Were completely unintentional,” Jo broke in. “It was an accident and largely my own fault. I was standing too close to the edge and paying no attention.”
“Fyffe is exuberant, but harmless,” the doctor acknowledged. “That’s why we don’t assign an attendant specifically to watch him. However, considering today’s events, we’ll need to be more watchful.”
“Of course, you must do what you think best, but he was hardly a threat,” Jo asserted, conveying exactly what happened and then going on to tell them about the sketch she’d been holding when she fell into the pond.
