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."
A brief pause in the struggle was a sign that he'd hit the mark, though Wynne didn't need any confirmation. He already knew. He wasn't about to stand by and see the boy getting battered week after week and not learn the reason. A few questions of the right people, some help from Hamish, and a clear pattern emerged.
"Every fight you've been in since you arrived has been over money. Last month, you let the pigs into the kitchen gardens because those farm lads had made a wager with you to do it. Afterwards, they reneged, so you fought them. Am I right?"
His son stopped, and Wynne knew he was right.
"Listen to me. Regardless of how much money you lay your hands on, you can't go back. Your home is here. Your place is with your only living parent . . . me."
The boy tore his arm free, but didn't try to run.
"Talk to me," Wynne ordered.
Cuffe backed away suddenly, stumbling into the road just as a carriage came out of the village.
The two lead horses in the team reared up as the driver reined them in sharply. The confused sound of horses and shouts mingled with the scream of a woman nearby as Cuffe fell backwards. Wynne sprang after him, grabbing his jacket and hauling him to safety as the horses plunged forward, carrying the carriage past them before stopping.
A woman was peering back at them with concern through the small window at the rear of the carriage. Her dark eyes met his with recognition. Wynne felt a kick deep in his gut. They were face-to-face.
Jo Pennington had arrived a day early.
* * *
Their time together had lasted only a few months. Her family believed Jo's suffering had subsided after a short while, but it never had.
After the duel, regret over the loss of Wynne's affections cast an impenetrable cloud over the remaining days of her youth. Occasional suitors presented themselves, but she allowed none of them within the circle of her affection or trust. No one she met could compare with the young naval officer as he remained in her memory.
* * *
Another ball, another stroll through the gauntlet of hushed whispers and embroidered tales. Another round of introductions to shallow young men and their hollow, well-rehearsed charm. Would-be suitors who didn't see her at all, but were well acquainted with her name and her dowry.
Jo was quickly growing tired of the charade. She was exhausted by the gossip of the ton.
Shame. Disgrace. Indignity. That was what they whispered. She didn't belong here.
They pursued her to the refreshment table; she was certain of it. But when she heard the tasteless reference to her family and the titters, she'd had enough. She had to escape.
Slipping through the crowd, she saw the open doors and made her way onto the dark balcony and the refuge it offered.
The façade of composure she'd been maintaining since the start of the young Season cracked and fell away. Tears coursed down her cheeks. She was shaking with anger and unhappiness and frustration. Her parents had warned her, and they were right. Her presentation at Court and her coming out had been a mistake.
Wallowing in misery, she heard a man's deep voice behind her.
"Which hand?"
She'd assumed she was alone. Panic and embarrassment overwhelmed her as she tried to wipe away the tears.
"Pray tell me which hand."
He was persistent. The balcony was dark. She turned and saw the tall naval officer standing near the trellis. His face lay in shadow, and he was holding out his closed fists.
"Have we been introduced?"
"No, Lady Josephine, we haven't. But you can still tell me which hand."
He was playing a game and she went along. "The right."
He turned his hand over and opened it. Empty.
Jo glanced toward the doors to the ballroom. "I really must be getting back."
"Which hand?" he asked again. His left hand was still extended.
"The left," she said, trying to finish this foolishness.
He opened the hand. It was empty.
"I realize you're teasing me, sir, but I'm not in any mood for it. I need to return to my friends."
"I'll give you one more chance. Which hand?" he asked, holding out only his right hand again.
He was not giving up.
"The right one," Jo said, smiling despite herself. "And this is my final answer."
His fist slowly turned over and opened. A delicate red rose bud lay in his palm. "For you."
Later that night, Jo and Lieutenant Wynne Melfort were officially introduced.
* * *
He was Captain Melfort now. Secretly, she'd followed his advancement and accomplishments in the ensuing years, combing through the war news for every mention of him.
As Jo stared out the rear window of the carriage at the man and boy standing on the edge of the lane, a thousand feelings rushed through her, but she clung to one. As painful as their separation was, time had softened much of her sorrows.
Tall and confident as ever in his stance and gaze, Wynne showed no trace of aging. He looked just as she still saw him in her dreams. The years had been kind to him. If anything, he had grown even more handsome.
Her eyes met his, and she nodded her head. He bowed but did not approach.
A blur of voices and market sounds filled the carriage, but none of them penetrated her thoughts. Then, the surprise of the incident gave way to panic. The urge to run, to escape from him, propelled her thoughts and actions.
"Have the driver walk on," she whispered to Anna, her maidservant.
She forced herself to take a breath, then the next and the next. Her heart was drumming in her chest, and any sense of composure was slow to attain. She willed herself to be calm; clear thinking was a necessity right now.
They'd finally met again. And the worst was over. What once existed between them was over. It was over, Jo kept repeating to herself. It was over.
"Did you know him, m'lady?" Anna asked. "A braw, handsome gentleman, to be sure."
At the time of Jo's engagement, the maidservant had been working at Baronsford. She guessed if Anna knew Captain Melfort at all, it was only by name.