It Happened in the Highlands(24)

More than the fair-weather abolitionists and the idealists in  Parliament, the Maroons were the strongest force resisting the evil of  slavery in Jamaica. In the sugar islands, they were known as the  Children of the Mist. And they were feared. Emerging from nowhere,  they'd attack a slave trader, free a shipment of slaves bound for a  plantation, and then disappear. When retaliations came, everyone was  dragged into battle-every man, woman, and child. And this is what  Cuffe's grandmother feared most.

Wynne respected the fight, but he couldn't allow his son to take part in it at his age.

"I'm not saying this well," he said, searching for the words that might  help Cuffe understand. "The decision to bring you to Scotland was to  give you a safe home, but that's not all. Having you here is as much  about your Nanny and me. It's about being a grandmother and a father.  It's about caring so much that you would die before allowing your son to  be hurt."

He pulled Cuffe to him again, and to his relief, the boy allowed it.  Wynne hadn't been the father he should have been, but he would make up  for it now.

"Until you're grown," he told him, "your place is with me. But I promise  you this, I'll teach you all you need to know to survive in the world  you choose to live in. You'll learn to think and ride and fight. You'll  train your mind and your body. You'll become strong and sharp and clear  thinking. You'll be a leader that men can trust. And when you're ready,  when you're old enough, you can choose where you want to be."

Wynne knew this wasn't the answer Cuffe hoped for.

"I know you miss your grandmother," he said softly. "You can write to her. I know she'll write back to you."

"But the time between is slow," Cuffe said, pulling away again. "If I don't see her, I'm afraid I'll forget her."

"Never. Nanny raised you. She made you the fine, strong lad you are. For  as long as you live, she'll be a part of who you are and a part of all  you'll do."

Cuffe stretched his legs out in front of him and stared at the line of  trees beyond the pond. His tears had dried and the sobs had subsided,  but his sorrow still showed in his face.                       
       
           



       

Jo told him to listen and talk to his son. He'd listened and then he'd  talked, as well. He hoped Cuffe knew that he understood his son's pain.

They'd made a great leap forward in a very short time, but he knew that this moment was just one step on a long road.

"So much of life requires making difficult choices," Wynne said quietly. "You have many ahead of you."

He was surprised when Cuffe's gaze swung around to him.

"What difficult choices have you made?"

"Too many to count."

"Was it a difficult choice bringing me here?"

Wynne pushed the shock of hair to the side to see his son's alert brown eyes. "No. That wasn't difficult at all."

"Tell me one difficult choice you made. One that changed your life."

Wynne's gaze drifted toward the stone edifice behind them. "I broke off my engagement with Lady Jo sixteen years ago."

Cuffe twisted around to glance back at the house. "You and Lady Jo? Why  would you do that? What's wrong with you? How could you let her go?"

Wynne could not disagree. What was wrong with him?

"I gave her up because I worried about her," he replied finally. "I let her go because I couldn't protect her."





Chapter 13


By Thursday morning Jo still hadn't informed her hosts about her  difficult decision to leave in two days for Torrishbrae. She'd only  intended to stop briefly as she passed through. But as she looked at the  patients enjoying the spring sunshine and busying themselves around the  pond closest to the Abbey buildings, Jo could almost feel the invisible  ties that had already formed.

Sitting on a blanket on the lee side of a large boulder, she looked at  Charles Barton. The bruises from last week's attack were fading, and  thankfully, there were no lasting effects. He was drawing furiously  beside her. Her task was to put each drawing on the growing stack  beneath the rock they were using to secure the sheets of paper against  the breeze. Mr. Fyffe danced by, sawing away at his imaginary fiddle,  and Mr. Stevenson was sitting calmly by a host of daffodils, an  attendant lounging on either side of him. A dozen other men were spread  along the edge of the pond, fishing poles in hand.

The peculiarities in the behavior of the patients in the annex had  become less and less strange to her. Jo was surprised how quickly one  came to accept their quirks and their difference. While she was watching  them, a shout drew her gaze across the pond as a patient landed a  trout, which flopped and flashed on the grass in the sunlight, to the  delight of all.

Hamish, the farm manager, greeted her as he and an assistant went by,  inspecting the banks of the pond as he made his way toward the small  dam. Normally, Cuffe would have been with him on such an occasion, but  he was otherwise engaged this morning with his father.

Her companion interrupted her thoughts, handing her another drawing, which she dutifully secured.

The Squire and his wife were unrelenting in their efforts to press their  nephew's matrimonial case, but Jo sensed that Dr. McKendry was having  too good a time playing the role of a rejected suitor when he had an  audience. The air of exaggeration in his suffering reminded Jo of comic  performances at the theatre in Drury Lane. Still, his family's warmth  and hospitality were exceeded only by their unintentional social  blunders and their fondness for local gossip.

Jo had formed attachments here, to be sure, but more than any of the  others, it was almost unbearable to think of leaving Wynne and Cuffe.  They needed time, however, for themselves.

The father-and-son conversation they'd shared at Knockburn Hall had  marked a new chapter for both of them. Last night, Cuffe even decided to  join the family for dinner. And now this morning, they had ridden  together to the village for the Thursday market.

Jo was glad they had gone alone. They'd both asked her to accompany  them, but as much as she wanted to go, she couldn't. By not going, she  was giving the two a chance to build their relationship. These times  together were critical for them, and she would not allow herself to  intrude.

The ache that gnawed at her when she thought of leaving was back. The  brief time she and Wynne spent together had rekindled the spark inside  that had never died. But perhaps this didn't need to be a permanent  farewell. She felt better thinking that nothing was to hinder her from  stopping back here in a month or so when she was returning to  Baronsford.                       
       
           



       

Twice a day she'd been sitting with Charles Barton, searching for any  clue he might have about her mother, but nothing more had revealed  itself. She wasn't giving up, though. She could only hope he would  continue to improve by the time she returned.

And when it came to Wynne, she wasn't about to interpret his behavior  toward her as anything more than friendship. The momentary burst of  passion they shared in the garden was simply a fleeting impulse on both  their parts. It was a good thing that he'd made no further overtures,  because she didn't trust her own heart. Perhaps when she was gone,  however, distance and a month's time apart would afford them a clearer  perspective on the reality of their situation.

She was deep in these meditations when Charles Barton tried to hand her  another drawing. Without warning the paper flew off in the breeze and  went sailing toward the water. Jo jumped up, waved off a nearby  attendant, and scrambled after the sketch. She chased it down and  grabbed the paper at the top of the embankment before it flew off across  the glistening surface.

Looking at this latest drawing, Jo was astonished to see that for the  first time, the depiction was not of a young woman who resembled her. It  was Jo herself. The braid pinned at the back of her head, the lines  around the smiling mouth that indicated her age, the style of the  clothing. Charles had drawn the dress and spencer jacket and shawl she  had on today. Even the matching velvet and lace cap that was presently  sitting on the blanket was discernable in her hand.

Hope softened the clenched fist of disappointment she'd come to accept. She turned and found the older man watching her.

"You see me," she said, smiling. "You're drawing me."

Maybe it was her imagination, but she would have sworn she saw the slightest of nods and understanding in his eyes.

He was responding. Could it be the fog he'd been lost in was lifting?

Suddenly, the dancing fiddler came out of nowhere and inadvertently grazed Jo's shoulder as he whirled past.

Her flailing arms were of no use as she slipped backward. It was too  late. Her heel caught on something and then she stepped back into space.  She hit the water like a felled tree and sank beneath the surface. The  coldness of the pond shocked her and she swallowed a mouthful of water.  Jo was a capable swimmer, but there was no need for such skills. Once  she got her legs under her and stood up, the water barely reached her  chest. She would have had no trouble getting out of the pond if it  weren't for two men leaping in after her.