Page 8 of It Happened in the Highlands
To remedy this, the vicar had made numerous attempts to introduce him to other boys of his rank in the area. Cuffe hadn’t shown up.
He was a loner, an outsider, an elusive spirit who preferred to retreat rather than try to accept his new role in this society.
As Wynne rode along the river toward the stone bridge leading into the village, he realized he was not only thinking of Cuffe. Two people matched that ‘loner’ description. His son was one and Jo Pennington was the other.
Her letter to Dermot had arrived yesterday. Jo was expected to reach the Abbey tomorrow or the next day.
Wynne tried to turn his mind to the hills, to the lowering grey sky, to the passing folk who demonstrated the liveliness of fairgoers. But it wasn’t working. She was on his mind.
He owed her, even after all this time. If a connection existed between Jo and Charles Barton, she had the right to know. He wanted her to know.
Dermot had been excited about Wynne’s suggestion of sending off the drawings. It could be of immense help to his patient if Lady Josephine were indeed the woman depicted in them. And he’d asked no questions when Wynne told him it was necessary that he remain anonymous and even absent himself during her visit. Each man respected the judgment and privacy of the other. While she was here, he would go to Dundee.
The patient had showed no further improvement. The elderly gentleman still could not care for himself. Barton had yet to speak a word or show an understanding of anything being said to him. Nonetheless, day after day, as long as he was in possession of pencil and paper, he drew. And the sketches were all the same. They were a depiction of Jo Pennington or someone who looked eerily similar to her.
When Wynne first saw Barton’s drawings, years had folded in on themselves like a paper troublewit puzzle, forming and reforming memories in the blink of a moment. Even though he’d spent the years after their broken engagement sailing the seas and fighting the French and the Americans, he still knew a great deal about Jo and the life she’d led. She never married, instead, devoting her time to a number of benevolent causes, even starting a facility that housed destitute women and their children.
Wynne’s older brother and his wife had purchased an estate in the Borders, only a short distance from Baronsford. The Penningtons were frequently mentioned in his sister-in-law’s letters.
He didn’t know the nature of Charles Barton’s relationship with Jo. Friend, lover, fellow philanthropist? Of course, the possibility existed that Wynne was seeing something that wasn’t there at all. Perhaps the woman in the drawings wasn’t even Jo. Still, vividly recalling the agony caused by the mystery of her origins, he had no choice but to give her the opportunity to pursue this if she chose. Obligation weighed on him, and informing Jo about Barton might lift the burden he’d been carrying.
As Wynne crossed the bridge, shouts of vendors hawking their wares reached him from the open area around the market cross, and some pipers were striking up a fanciful Highland tune. Deciding to search out Cuffe on foot, he dismounted and left his horse with a tanner’s boy by the edge of the river and started into the village, passing a pair of housewives sitting out on stools in front of an open door. The smell of sweet oat bread and honey cakes hung in the air.
Rayneford and the Abbey wouldn’t be places to hold much interest for someone of Jo Pennington’s station. He assumed she’d spend no more than a day, see Barton, and then move on. He’d already spoken to Dermot’s aunt about looking after Cuffe while he was away, but he hadn’t yet mentioned it to his son. As if his presence or absence would make any difference at all.
The Squire’s wife was one of the only people at the Abbey his son had not alienated, and Cuffe spoke to her with the note of deference she was entitled to. Mrs. McKendry, small and round and maternal by nature, was close in age to the lad’s Jamaican grandmother, and Wynne wondered if some similarity between the two women had struck a chord in Cuffe.
Looking past an old man carrying a large basket with a score of heather-brush brooms, Wynne spotted his son crouched in front of an abandoned cottage. Beyond him, a row of fishmongers had planks laid out with large salmon on display. Cuffe had four brown trout lined up on a coarse bag on the ground.
A stab of annoyance immediately gave way to worry. Fishing was not against the law, but if he had success at this endeavor, what was to stop him from trapping pheasant or duck or brown hare to sell next? He could easily find himself in trouble if someone didn’t know he’d gotten the game from Abbey grounds. The assumption might be made that he’d poached them, and the difference in his skin color from the pale and ruddy faces of the native Highlanders wouldn’t help him.
Any remaining confidence Wynne had in the lad’s ability to stay out of trouble and to adjust to this new life slipped away. There was nothing he hadn’t provided. Food, shelter, education, and a great deal of freedom to do as he wished. Last week, he’d selected the best horse in the stables for Cuffe when he appeared to show an interest in riding. His son wanted for nothing, and yet here he was, selling fish at a market.
A woman approached Cuffe with three little ones clinging to her skirts. She glanced over at the line of fishermen and exchanged a few words with the boy. Taking pity on him, Wynne thought. One of the brown trout went into the basket she was carrying, but before the coin could change hands, Wynne intervened. Snatching the money, he gave it back to her.
“The lad is not selling them,” he said sharply. “They’re free. In fact, you can take the rest too, if you can use them.”
Cuffe’s expression hardened, but he said nothing, refusing to acknowledge Wynne’s presence.
“See here. I don’t know what business it is o’ yers. This wee fellow has every right to earn his . . .” She stopped abruptly when she looked into Wynne’s face.
Wisely, she said nothing more, but sent Cuffe a look of commiseration. Gathering up the remainder of the trout, she quickly scurried off in the direction of the market cross with her children in her wake.
Wynne believed he was a reasonable man. As a captain in the navy, he’d prided himself on issuing rational commands even in the midst of the strongest gale or the fiercest battle. Noncompliance wasn’t an option. He expected others to carry out his orders, whether it was on board his ship before, or at the Abbey now. He didn’t know how he’d managed to let slip all the rules he lived by in dealing with his son.
“We need to talk. Come with me.”
The words had not left his mouth when Cuffe started walking away from him.
Wynne caught hold of his arm. “Don’t make this worse.”
The ten-year-old was strong and quick. Tearing his arm free, he started to run, but Wynne reached out and caught him again, this time grabbing the shoulder of his jacket.
“I’m giving you the opportunity of addressing this with me in private,” he warned. “You and I need to talk about what you’ve done. And you’ll tell me—using your words—why you felt the need to sell those fish. What is it that you don’t have?”
Wynne might as well have been talking to those trout. Cuffe’s sole interest was to pull himself free. They were beginning to draw the attention of others, so he took a firm hold of his son’s arm and started toward the tanner’s, where he’d left his horse.
“I know what you’re doing,” he said as they walked. “You’re trying to make money for your escape. You think you can buy your passage back to Jamaica.”
