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.
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.