Page 7 of It Happened in the Highlands
Jo began pacing across the brightly lit library. Aberdeen. Thirty-seven years ago, her own mother had been in the company of cotters who’d been cleared off the land in the Highlands and were passing through. Perhaps she was from the area. Perhaps Jo’s origins lay in Aberdeen. After crossing back to Grace, she picked up one of the sketches.
“You’re hoping that the young woman in these drawings is your mother,” her friend said.
There were no secrets between them. Grace was one of the only people that she had ever opened her heart to. Regardless of the years that had passed and all the philanthropic projects Jo had used to give her life purpose, the mystery of her birth was as painful today as it was when she first recognized the ramifications of her dubious origins.
“Write back to the doctor,” Grace suggested. “Ask for more details. Perhaps he’ll reveal the name of this patient.”
Jo shook her head. She’d tried to learn more about her mother before and had run up against blank walls. This was the first potential clue ever, regarding the woman who gave birth to her. Perhaps these drawings would lead her to a family connection. No, she couldn’t leave it to chance. She couldn’t allow Dr. McKendry’s patient to slip away.
“I need to go there. I want to meet this elder gentleman.”
“But what do you know of Dr. McKendry?” Grace asked. “Or this asylum, the Abbey?”
“Nothing. And I do understand that I’m building a castle of hope on a foundation of sand. Still, I can’t waste this chance. I’ll not err on the side of caution. Not this time.”
No woman Jo had ever met had lived through more dangers than her sister-in-law. No one in her acquaintance was more courageous than the young mother seated before her. Grace had seen the bloody battlefields of France and Spain, and endured a sea crossing between Antwerp and Baronsford trapped in a wooden crate. She was a survivor. Jo prayed that her friend would see this for what it was, a simple journey to the Highlands.
“You know your brother,” Grace said doubtfully. “Hugh will insist that you delay such a trip until he knows everything there is to know about Dr. McKendry, the Abbey, and his patients.”
She was correct. Hugh would try to stop her. Jo loved her brother, respected him. And in his view of life, knowledge was always empowering. As Lord Justice of the Commissary Court in Edinburgh, he never acted impulsively. Add to that the protectiveness he felt for her, and she knew he would make this trip impossible.
Jo recognized she’d created a dilemma for her friend by telling Grace her intentions. She didn’t want to drive a wedge into the bond of trust between husband and wife.
In Sutherland, a few days’ ride north of Aberdeen, their younger brother and his wife were expecting their first child. Jo had planned to go and help them. She’d simply stop in at this asylum en route.
“Hugh knows I’m going north to see Gregory and Freya at Torrishbrae,” she said, taking a seat beside Grace. “I’m leaving a bit earlier, and I’ll be perfectly safe. I’ll be traveling with a maid and a driver and a footman.”
“You promised Phoebe that you’d wait until she arrives from Hertfordshire before traveling north. She’s planning on coming with you.”
“My sister is unreliable when it comes to her plans. Any day now I expect a letter from her containing a long list of excuses of why she is delayed. She might not get here until that babe is walking.”
With secret dreams of being a writer, Phoebe lived in a world of her own. The realities of ordered schedules and family obligations held little importance.
“Aberdeen is on the way to Sutherland,” Jo said. “My stop at the Abbey will be brief.”
“I still think you should tell Hugh about the letter and the sketches,” Grace insisted. “And your intended visit to this asylum.”
“You can tell him,” Jo told her. “But wait until I am already on the road.”
Chapter 3
With each Thursday market, the sleepy Highland village of Rayneford came alive, drawing cotters and tradesmen and vendors from the entire region. The market was especially busy this time of year, with the agents of coastal merchants crisscrossing the Highlands to buy newly shorn wool.
So when the Squire mentioned he’d seen Cuffe traipsing across the fields toward the village, Wynne told himself that he shouldn’t have been surprised. Market day certainly offered more to interest a boy than Cameron’s lessons and his long columns of sums.
Still, as he rode toward the village, he reminded himself that he had a responsibility to keep his son on the right path. But doing it was becoming more difficult all the time.
Nearly two months had passed since Cuffe’s arrival, and a single week didn’t pass now without some complaint about him from Hamish or Cameron. The lad was becoming quite proficient at dodging his lessons. He simply didn’t show up, disappearing during the hours designated for instruction. It was the same for his time with the vicar.
Whatever admiration Wynne once had for his spirited nature, that feeling had gradually dwindled to discontent and annoyance. But whatever complaints the others voiced, they paled in comparison with his own disappointment regarding their father-and-son relationship. Or rather, their lack of it.
Wynne continued to be a blank space in his son’s world. Cuffe didn’t speak to him—not to complain or to engage in the most mundane conversation. He could draw no response of any kind from him—no reaction to praise or to discipline, no acknowledgment whatsoever that he even existed. The ten-year-old ignored him entirely, and that was more irritating than he would ever have imagined.
A cart approached from the direction of the village, the piles of wool fleece it had delivered to the market replaced by supplies for the Abbey’s kitchen. Wynne exchanged a few words of greeting with the driver and his young helper. The lad was about the same age as Cuffe.
Seeing the boy opened another door of worry. Since arriving from Jamaica, his son had made no friends at all, as far as he could tell.
Cuffe’s mother, Fiba, was of African descent, and Wynne had made certain everyone knew the lad was his son and heir. This hadn’t helped him make friends with the younger farm hands, to be sure. He fully intended him to grow up as a gentleman, and his name and wealth made Cuffe the superior of anyone his own age within miles of the Abbey.
